


Liars

by the_diversionist



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, F/M, Rivalmance, another bloody epic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2018-08-11 02:38:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 157,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7872802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_diversionist/pseuds/the_diversionist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke and Isabela like to think that they understand every disappointing shred of each other. They don't. Hawke x Isabela throughout the many years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A/N: Moved over from that other site for the few who were interested. I will slowly be posting this and trying to edit when I remember. Someone remind me if I forget to update.

 

* * *

Isabela is a liar.

Hawke knows it the moment she meets her. She knows Isabela's type. She's never trusted it. The warm and charismatic hide knives behind smiles. Hawke prefers treachery to be up front. She may have to work with Isabela but they don't have to be friends. Isabela flirts. Hawke pretends to not notice.

* * *

 

Viktoria Hawke is an icy bitch.

Aveline and Varric may like her but Isabela isn't impressed. Hawke doesn't speak unless she has to. A smile would crack her face. She can't take a joke. She's not that great in a fight, despite her exaggerated reputation. She's sanctimonious. She doesn't flirt. Isabela can't get a scent off of her. Hawke's a ghost.

She's tall and slender. Her hair is long and black as coal. She's pretty. Even with the scar across the cheeks and bridge of nose. Not one Isabela would mind having a tumble with. Tumbles don't mean anything.

Sod it. If she gets Hawke into bed, she gets Hawke into bed. It might be fun. No use in letting a terrible personality ruin a perfectly shallow thing.

They're at the docks. The sun is magnificently hot but Hawke doesn't seem affected. She turns her head in Isabela's direction, not breaking the conversation she's in with Aveline. Isabela studies the long black coat she wears. There is loose thread along the seams of the shoulder; the red sash around her waist is bright as blood. Hawke is  _hard._ Her pale blue eyes are cold and sharp like a knife.

* * *

 

"So, you're an apostate," Isabela says.

"It's late. Shouldn't you be drinking yourself into oblivion?" Hawke stands before a rectangular wooden table, worn and gray with wood that splinters in every direction. It's another 'abandoned' warehouse in the docks. It looks like every other one used for nefarious purposes. Varric uses it to hide some of the items he'd prefer the city guard stay away from. He's shared the space with Hawke and Isabela who collects more questionable items: poisons and pricier goods that don't belong to her. Hawke comes here to get away, to have some peace and quiet. To make traps.

Hawke focuses on the one in front of her. It's more complicated than she's used to making but will be more effective because of it. She needs to concentrate. Isabela needs to go away. "Unless there's something you need help stealing?"

"Not tonight." She perks. "Would you be game?"

"No."

Isabela tsks with disappointment. "I'd hate for you to not be dreadfully dull."

Hawke studies the mechanism, looking at the pressure plate. Isabela comes closer. Her hand is set to touch on the table. Hawke flicks her eyes in her direction. Her gaze strikes Isabela like a warning. Isabela shifts her attention to something else. She lifts the staff that Hawke has leaning against the wooden railing. It is tall and ominous looking. Her fingers tread along the smooth dark wood. "Don't touch that."

Isabela looks at Hawke, grins and touches it. Her hand slides up until she's gently cradling the skull mounted on the end of the staff. "This thing smiles more than you do."

"And it will have more teeth than you if you don't let it go." Hawke abandons the trap. She wishes that Varric hadn't shared the warehouse space with the Rivaini. She's a nuisance.

"You talk the talk, Hawke but you don't walk it." Isabela rolls her eyes and sets the staff aside. "Come on—you wouldn't risk bruising this ass," she slaps it, "or these." She cups her breasts and laughs when Hawke scowls. "You're no fun whatsoever. Not so much as a blush? Hawke makes Hawke a boring girl." Hawke takes the staff, brings it to her side of the table and returns her attention to the trap. "You're the first person I've met that  _can_ take their eyes off me. All of me."

"What of it? You're not that pretty."

"How you wound my tender feelings! I am that pretty." Isabela says. "You're just being difficult. You're a strange apostate." This subject again. Hawke narrows her eyes on the trap, reaches out to touch a spring but stops herself. "What's your story, Hawke? I'll bite. I'll even let you pick where." Hawke doesn't react. "Here you are making traps all by yourself in the middle of the night. Carver's at the Blooming Rose again, he's becoming a regular along with your greasy uncle. Anders is ranting passionate speeches no one gives a damn about somewhere, while the Kitten is no doubt fumbling her way through whatever patch she got stuck in this time, just begging someone to understand that blood magic really isn't all that bad."

"Do you have a point?"

"Sure—in there somewhere. You're not like your brother. You're not like other mages I've met. You don't care about the politics. I can't say that you ever make expressions but you seem to tire of Anders and Merrill. All mages have something to say about their plight. You say nothing. You sit in warehouses in the middle of the night and make traps. Shouldn't you be summoning demons or performing some other voodoo? Reading books… or… making charms… whatever it is you apostates do."

"I don't care about any of that." She was born with magic. It is something she must live with and work around. She could no more pick it than her hair color. It is a curse, a weapon, nothing more. "I need coin for the Deep Roads expedition and I aim to get it. Athenril wants traps, I'll make her traps." Hawke initially stopped working for her a year ago but if there's coin to be made she'll do what it takes to get it. With Gamlen and Carver spending everything they get their hands on she must resort to other means. She must get her mother away from Lowtown and back into the Amell estate. It means little to Hawke but everything to her mother. They've already lost Bethany. Hawke bites her tongue.

"Where does an apostate learn to make traps?"

"From the same people that taught you to make them." Hawke's irritation finally creeps into her voice. "And from books. Diagrams. Where do you think? Do you think I know nothing outside of magic?" Isabela raises her hands in surrender, a sardonic smile on her lips. "You've already stowed whatever it is you meant to stow away for the night so why not go and leave me in peace?"

Isabela scoffs. "And I thought Aveline had a stick up her arse. Well, no sense in wasting a perfectly good evening on you. I'll leave you to your traps, Hawke." She brushes past her and flicks a finger at a small spring. The trap stirs and claps its razor sharp teeth shut with a loud bang.

Hawke clenches her jaw. "I would have found it. You distracted me."

"I just saved your hand. Not that you ever use it for anything fun." She looks up to Hawke's face and saunters away. "Study your diagrams more closely. I'll stop distracting you."

* * *

 

"What do you think of Hawke?" Isabela asks.

It's night and they're at the Hanged Man. Music flows merrily through the establishment. The usual drunken, leering men are out, as are the women who are eager for a good time, or at least some free drinks. Isabela keeps a close eye on Merrill—there are always men to watch out for, who will think to take advantage of an elf nobody might care about. Merrill's so damned naïve that it takes all of Isabela's vigilance and Varric's coin to keep her out of trouble.

Merrill ponders the question and takes a careful look over in the direction where Hawke sits with Fenris, Varric and Aveline. "Oh, I shouldn't say. Aveline or Sebastian will wash my mouth out with soap and I don't much like the taste of it. Does anybody, I wonder?"

Isabela sneers. "From the smell of this place you'd think some were bloody allergic." She looks to Varric's table. There's a card game going. Aveline looks stony, as she usually does. She's piss poor at cards. Fenris broods and Varric looks the way he does when he has a trick up his sleeve. Hawke is smiling. "Did you know she did that?" She asks Merrill. "Smiled?"

"Oh my! That is a smile, isn't it? She's never turned it at me." Her cheeks redden. Isabela smirks. Merrill, flustered with Hawke. How adorable. "I don't understand Hawke. Why spend so much time with Fenris and Aveline? They don't even like mages."

"She certainly doesn't like you," Isabela says. The looks she directs at the Dalish elf are murderous at times. Anders receives better treatment but not by much. Isabela takes a long drink of her beer. "Which is impossible. Who can resist your charms?"

"Charms? I haven't made any. I was never very good at them and I don't see much point. They're a waste of time. That task has always been delegated to —" She stops when she sees Isabela's amused expression. "Oh! You didn't mean actual charms, you meant—Oh." She laughs and her cheeks redden further. "Isabela, why do you go and say such things? I can't find one person who finds me charming at all." She touches her cropped hair nervously.

"Varric adores you and so do I. The rest? They can bugger off." The way all of Kirkwall and some of the companions they spend time with can get their knickers all twisted up about a bit of blood magic irritates Isabela to no end. Aren't there enough reasons to fight and hate each other without throwing another thing into the mix? Merrill's sweet. It's all that should matter.

"Hm. When I first met Hawke I thought we'd get along, mage solidarity or what not. But she doesn't like me and Anders doesn't like me. It's all terribly lonely."

"Lonely around me? Am I not enough?" She jokes, pulling out a pout before grinning. "I can find you a bed partner. At the Blooming Rose?"

Merrill laughs nervously, clears her throat. She wipes at a dirty spot in her glass. "Have you ever noticed that Hawke goes out of her way not to use magic in a fight? Sometimes I wonder if she's very good at it. She was never in the Circle—so maybe she's never learned much? Magic is a gift but she doesn't act that way at all. I prefer Carver." She whispers the next: "He's so handsome."

"He certainly is," Isabela says and considers the younger brother. His looks aren't lacking, and his arms! Swoon. But he's a little boy who bitches constantly about Hawke. Not that Isabela blames him. It must be tedious to have such a hard ass for an older sister. His skill with a sword is certainly impressive—she wonders what other talents he may have. "But daft."

"Is he? I hadn't noticed."

"Is there anything you do notice, Kitten?"

"Some things! I can't think of any right now…" She looks again towards Varric's table. "I think Fenris likes Hawke. Strange, isn't it? She's an apostate. He keeps looking at her when she isn't paying attention."

"I'm sure he'd like to enjoy her for a night. I'm not a fan of hers but I wouldn't mind the same." Isabela remembers their first meeting and how grudgingly Hawke had agreed to help her. She had thought the fight in the chantry might be followed by a passionate night in the sheets. They're both attractive so why not? Isabela had extended an invitation but Hawke hadn't taken her up on it. It was surprising at the time but Isabela has learned to be disappointed in her.

"What do you think of Hawke, Isabela?"

"I think she's a pompous, boring idiot."

Merrill's green eyes go wide as if she's just been told that Aveline eats elven babies. "And you'd still go to bed with her?"

"Oh, don't be so scandalized. Maybe she's good for one thing. Sex doesn't mean anything, Kitten. Sometimes you have to make the best of things. Or people." Isabela looks to the table where Hawke is throwing a card down, her smile is fuller. She looks in Isabela's direction. The smile falters. She turns back to the card game. "I can't imagine she'd be any good, though. She'd just lie there. What a cold fish."

* * *

 

Hawke hears nothing behind the door. If Aveline were present she'd make a joke. Hawke slips the envelope under Isabela's door. She's taken a handful of steps when the door flies open. Reflex makes Hawke look back. Isabela leans on the doorframe, barefoot, the bandana gone from her head. The left strap of her dress, shirt, whatever it is, hangs down along her arm. Black tendrils spill over her face and onto her bronze shoulders. Hawke doesn't realize she's staring.

"Like what you see?" Her amber eyes dance. "What's this, Hawke?" Isabela waves the envelope, spinning it and letting two gold sovereigns fall into the palm of her hand. "I don't charge for conjugal visits. The very idea offends me."

Hawke doesn't know whether Isabela is joking or not. It's Isabela's nature to not take anything seriously. Hawke hadn't anticipated she'd be awake. It's so early the sun is on the verge of rising. The plan had been to leave the coin and depart unseen. “Athenril liked the traps. You helped. I only gave you what you were due."

Isabela sashays over, her hips swinging sensually. Hawke notices and focuses on the floors of the Hanged Man hallways, the straw that's littered throughout. Walking barefoot isn't advisable but Isabela can do whatever she likes. She ought to know more than anyone how dirty the Hanged Man is. "A simple 'thank-you' would have sufficed."

"You, take a thank-you over coin? I'll believe it when I see it."

Isabela's eyes drop for an instant but her playful smile doesn't change. "Right you are. Well, a fool and their coin are soon parted. I'll happily take this. Thanks, Hawke. You'd have pocketed it if you were smart. Aren't you trying so desperately to collect coin for your expedition? Throwing coin away for stupid, noble ideas isn't going to get you there any faster."

Hawke shrugs. "If I'd left it home Carver would spend it at the Blooming Rose."

"Now that is a fine idea!" Isabela crosses her arms gently, her bosom pressed together in all its glory. "There's a man who knows how to have a good time. He could teach you a thing or two. You're not here to screw me silly so why not I find a perfectly willing partner at the Rose? You've provided the coin for a few dances." She jangles the gold pieces cheerfully in her hand.

"Save the coin. Buy one of those silly hats you're always going on about." Hawke went into the so-called amazing hat shop in Lowtown. She didn't find it so amazing. So many elaborate Orlesian styles. Maker, how many birds died for those hats?

"I'll always take sex over a flashy new hat."

"No surprise there. What's the matter, Isabela? Can't give it away anymore?"

Isabela laughs. "Ah, Ser Man Hands has been a naughty influence. You're asking for a spanking, Hawke, and not the fun kind." Isabela slips the coin back into the envelope and gives it back to her. "Keep your coin, Hawke. You need it more than I do." Hawke doesn't take it. "I don't want it. I don't want anything from you."

"That's dramatic."

Isabela smiles. "No, this is." She flings the envelope across the hallway. "Have fun playing fetch, Hawke." She winks and blows a kiss. "It won't be the first time."

Hawke turns to the envelope and hears the door to Isabela's room slip shut. Hawke looks to the door and to the envelope. She walks over, kneels and picks it up. It's grimy to the touch. The weight of the gold is heavy in her hands. She considers slipping the coin beneath Isabela's door again but there's no use. She'd likely find some way to get rid of it. She doesn't see why Isabela has to be so stubborn. She hasn't said anything that's untrue.

She goes to Varric's room and picks the relatively flimsy lock. He'd once told her that she was welcome at any time and she'd taken him up on his offer. She likes Varric's space. The colors are warm and inviting, much like he is. It’s so easy for him to put her at ease. He's never given a damn about her being or not being an apostate. It's refreshing. She takes a seat at his hexagonal table and watches the fireplace for several minutes. There's an open bottle of wine on the table and she pours herself a glass. She has a sip, picks up the bottle, stands and goes to Varric's bed. The bed is massive, enough for three or four humans. Hawke wonders if he ever has company. She prods him with her boot and he starts suddenly, taking hold of Bianca who sleeps cushioned on the pillow beside him. He points Bianca at Hawke's chest. Hawke's eyes widen. "So Bianca's the tart that has taken the coveted spot at your bedside! Varric, you pervert!" She grins.

He blinks. "Hawke? What the blight are you doing?" He wipes at his eyes, yawns and puts Bianca down gently. "Do you know what time it is?"

"Time to drink," she offers him the wine bottle. He looks at her skeptically and scoots over. His hairy bare chest is a spectacle. Varric notices her noticing and finds a shirt to the side of the bed to pull on. "Oh, you don't have to get dressed on my account. I want to brag to all the ladies of Kirkwall that I have seen Varric in the state of undress."

"Har, har."

Once Varric has a shirt on she takes a seat at the edge of the bed. "You nearly killed me, dwarf. How would you have told my story then?"

" _Hawke was renowned for her beauty and strength but not her intelligence. All of Thedas wept when she walked into the belly of a dragon while on her quest to find a nice, dark place to lie down.'_ " Varric waves the story away. "Seriously, Hawke, why are you here? Not that I'm complaining. How many men have a beautiful woman to wake up to?" He drinks from the bottle. "With wine!" He laughs. "Early morning? Late night?" he looks at her face. "Late night."

"Isabela's angry with me."

"Isn't she usually? What'd you do now?" He asks. "Save an orphan from starving?"

Hawke smiles at the joke. She doesn't know if the statement is unfair. It'd certainly keep in line with Isabela's record. Anytime Hawke offers assistance Isabela is unhappy. Then again, hadn't the pirate saved a ship of would-be slaves? She can't be all bad.

Varric takes another drink of the wine while Hawke muses over Isabela. He situates himself into the pillow. "I've gotta give it to you, Hawke. You're a good kid but you've got a knack for pissing people off. Did you shoot her down again? Where do you get that resolve?"

Hawke shakes her head absentmindedly at him. She has another sip. The wine is dry, too warm. It leaves her parched. "Where do you? You've managed to resist her wiles."

"Bianca's the only girl for me. You know that. So, what did you do?" Hawke shrugs. "Nothing, huh?"

"Nothing." Nothing that hadn't been done or said before, anyway.

"Uh huh." He looks at her skeptically. "How is the quest to collect coin for the expedition?"

The change of subject agrees with Hawke. She sits up straighter. "Bloody brilliant. Every ten sovereigns I manage to scrape together Carver spends seven of at the Blooming Rose." Hawke is frustrated with him. Talking with him hasn't done anything to improve the situation. Gamlen isn't any damned better about it either. She won't take the matter to her mother. The less she knows about both of their brothers' activities, the better. It isn't as if Hawke is without her own vices. Leandra would be disappointed at how Hawke's chosen to earn coin from time to time. When times are desperate, as they often are, Hawke's nothing but a thug for hire. "He managed to get girls into bed in Lothering without paying for it."

"Can't say it does anything for his surly mood, either. He and the Elf, making women all over Kirkwall swoon. Not that you don't have a talent for that yourself."

"Brooding or making women swoon?"

"Both, now that you mention it. I meant making women swoon."

"Until I open my mouth?"

"I didn't want to say it…" Varric thinks, frowns. "What  _is_ your problem with Rivaini?" Hawke scoffs. "I'm curious. She's easy on the eyes, a good drinking partner, friendly… really friendly if you want that kind of thing." Hawke smirks. "You can't miss the way she hits on you."

"She hits on anything with legs. They don't need legs. There was a peg legged pirate the other day she couldn't stay away from."

"Hey, there's something to be said for those peg legged pirates. You can always hear them coming," Varric smiles and finishes his wine, setting it aside. "It's saved me trouble. Out with it, Hawke. You woke me up, it's the least you can do."

"I don't trust her." Hawke thinks to what she knows of Isabela. She's always got her hands in the pot; she's always crossing boundaries. She has no sense of self-control. What would Hawke be without self-control? What would Anders be or Merrill? Not that they have much of it. That lack is dangerous. How much self-control can a mage really have? It troubles her. She gives a gentle shake of her head. "You know Isabela. Do you ever think of that story she told us about whatever relic and Castillon? She's lying."

"I can't say it's impossible. So what if she is?"

"It'll be trouble.  _She_ will be trouble."

Varric lifts his hands at her with amused exasperation. "So are you! Who doesn't love trouble? It's great story fodder."

"Trouble’s hounded me my entire life." Always having to look behind her for anyone eager to turn her over to the templars or do the dirty work of ending her themselves, always worrying for her family and what someone might do if they found out they'd been hiding her. Having the power to wield a destructive force but not being able to use it to save those that matter. Yes. She has enough trouble. "I don't need to add her to the mix." She sighs. "She can be so selfish." Isabela regards any act of kindness as sacrilege. It's always about what she wants with little thought to anything else. It isn't how Hawke was raised. All of her family made sacrifices without complaint. Aside from Carver.

"Ever think she had to turn out that way? How much do you really know about her?"

Hawke shakes her head. She thinks of Isabela. She doesn't know many details. Even if she asked she doubts Isabela would provide straightforward answers. Hawke knows they aren't due to her. "It doesn't matter." She gets to her feet and finishes the wine. "Thanks for the talk, Varric. And the wine. Sorry for waking you. I appreciate you not killing me. There's always next time if templars don't beat you to it."

Varric waves her away and Hawke sends another smile in his direction before departing and heading down the stairs to the tavern. There are no customers. She's never seen the Hanged Man so emptied. It looks more depressing and dirty than usual. She finds Corff at the bar and turns the coin over to him. "Apply this to Isabela's tab. Don't mention it was from me."

Corff nods, wiping the glass he holds. "I'll tell her it's on the house for her good business."

"Good." Hawke taps the bar and exits into the morning. After being in the darkness for so long, the glare of the sun hurts her eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

"Your friend Isabela is in the brig again." Aveline tells Hawke over breakfast.

They're in the mess hall of the barracks in the Viscount's Keep. Aveline invites her to join her and the other guards from time to time—provided she remain inconspicuous. The rest of their companions have been barred from visiting for one reason or another. Neither Hawke nor the others have protested. Hawke collects another spoonful of gray mottled oatmeal.

Isabela's incarceration is unsurprising. The pirate has a penchant for trouble. Recently she's been dragging Carver along, who is eager to be distinguished from his 'prat' of an older sister. Hawke doesn't want to consider what it would do to their mother or what Hawke would do to her brother if he ever lands himself in the brig alongside of Isabela. "She's not my friend. What did she do this time?"

"I won't bore you with the details but the charges go on for several pages. She suggested you pay the fine and get her out."

Aveline's eyes sparkle ominously as she watches Hawke and awaits a reaction. She has already confessed to Hawke that she considers Isabela to be a bad influence on Carver. Hawke agrees but think there's something to be said for Carver's own stupidity. Isabela isn't family. Hawke has no obligation to her. "She got herself into the stupid mess. She can get herself out."

"Well said." Aveline studies her further. Hawke considers the matter finished. She has several more spoonfuls of the oatmeal. It isn't ideal but it is a free meal and food she doesn't have to take from home. She lowers her voice. "She mentioned you have the coin provided you still work for Athenril?"

Hawke hits the inside of the bowl with the wooden spoon. It makes a dull thud. The oatmeal is drying crudely on the inside of the bowl. She’d wanted to keep the information about Athenril from Aveline. Hawke knows Aveline disapproves. "My coin isn't her concern." She knows she's sidestepped the question.

"Nor mine?"

"Do you want me to lie to you Aveline? Or would you prefer that I go?"

"I'm not sure."

Hawke finishes the oatmeal, scraping the insides of the bowl, gathering every bite. She hates the pitying look in Aveline's eyes; it isn't as if the guards have enviable meals nor is Hawke the only Fereldan going hungry in Kirkwall. All things considered her family is doing better than most. They're not in Darktown. For the moment. "Ask me no questions and I will tell you no lies." She smiles painfully at Aveline's disapproving look.

* * *

 

It's getting harder to do any kind of fun stealing with Hawke's perpetual presence in the warehouse. How is she supposed to run a racket? She and her girls will end up in the poorhouse at this rate. Hawke sits on a wobbly stool. Her hair is loosely tied as if she couldn't be bothered to pay attention to her looks. Or maybe she knows that they're good enough that she doesn't have to make any effort. The problem with most attractive people, Isabela thinks, is that they often know it. "And so you didn't pay my way out of the brig. I would have preferred something dashing and romantic, a prison riot to distract the guards from our daring escape but you couldn't even provide that." Isabela's voice echoes softly throughout the large, open space.

"I won't pay for your messes. You're not worth the trouble."

Isabela rolls her eyes. She performs a small hop and takes a seat at the edge of the table where Hawke reads. Why did Varric share the space with Hawke? She's so damned uptight but Varric enjoys her company.  _Why?_  They're both losing profit because of the sodding apostate. What's there to be so moral about? Morals are for people who aren't clever enough to be devious. Hawke hasn't ratted her out to Aveline yet but there's no guarantee she won't. "What must it be like to be angry all the time? You need some release." Her hand slides to Hawke's but Hawke turns the page of her book and Isabela's touch falls empty. She smiles dryly. "Anders and Fenris are a bundle of laughs compared to you. That's just wrong." She peers at the contents of the book. "Look here, you  _do_ read about magic. After all that fussing about how you're so much more."

Hawke's eyebrows dip. She sets her sights on Isabela. "I don't want you talking to Aveline about my private dealings. It's my own business."

"Did Ser Aveline give you a scolding about Athenril? Good. I need a break and she's not the kind I want on my back." She smiles mischievously but Hawke has already returned her attention to the text she reads. Isabela looks it over. It must weigh a solid twenty pounds. The binding is hard, black leather. "What's it like to be able to do magic? Do you have any weird quirks? A man inside of you like Anders? No? Nothing? Miss the word play there? Maybe you're into something more perverted… perhaps some blood and knife play like Merrill?" Hawke's jaw clenches tighter. "You think if you're quiet I'll go away quickly but I'm afraid I'll just sit here and pester you. It will be dull, but annoying you is payment enough."

"If you want to talk about magic talk to Anders or Merrill."

"I've heard more than I've ever wanted from those two," Isabela says, dismissing the suggestion with a wave of her hand. Anders is passionate; it interested Isabela initially but now she's tired of his constant tirades. She's already bedded him so there's nothing new to discover there. Merrill's adorable but Isabela doesn't care about the benefits (or ill effects) of blood magic. "I'm more interested in your opinion. Or should I go off what Carver has said?" Hawke looks to her then. Isabela knows she's on the right track. "Carver knows how to work his jaw. It took some wiles but I needled out of him how you got that scar on that pretty face of yours."

There's a beat of silence. "You did?"

Hawke's tone is unreadable. Isabela knows she has mis-stepped and wishes that she could take it back. She bluffed and Hawke called her on it. Hawke has no tells that Isabela has been able to find. Not now when she needs to, anyway. "I want to hear you tell it."

Hawke marks her place in the book and closes it solemnly. Isabela thinks that she's going to leave. Hawke stands. "After my father died it was up to me to take care of my family. I wasn't very good at it and the little jobs I could get wouldn't pay me what they paid men to take care of their wives and children. I took to stealing what we needed when we were short. Not too different from my first year in Kirkwall. We ended up being short often. I was caught. I didn't have any coin to spare so the merchant took the payment out on my face." Isabela listens carefully, watches her more closely than she listens. "Does that sound about right?"

Isabela narrows her eyes. "You're a sorry thief." Of all things to get caught for. Stealing for survival. What a waste. There's no point to stealing if it isn't any fun. Either way…"You're lying."

"Why would I lie about that?"

"I asked first."

"You didn't."

"Let's pretend I did." She slides off the desk. They're standing close now. Isabela touches the shoulder of Hawke's worn black coat. It's literally coming apart at the seams. "How long have you had that scar?"

"Long enough."

Isabela wraps the black thread around her finger. She sees a sliver of Hawke's flesh in the opening. The jacket is thin. It must be cold in the winter. Hawke removes Isabela's hand, gathers her book and leaves.

Hawke pores over the thick text. Her father has been gone for years now. It's up to her to continue her training as if he'd never left. It isn't the same without Bethany. She wishes she wasn't compelled to continue her studies but it's what her father would want. It's what's responsible. And as loathe as she is to admit it, it will likely help her make some coin later on.

It's impossible to have some peace and quiet at home, what with Gamlen's complaining, her mother's worries or Carver's endless tirades. Lowtown is loud and the walls to Gamlen's home are thin. There is only so much screaming she can take, so many dogs barking, so many whores moaning that she can listen to before she ducks away to the docks and the warehouse at night. If Isabela had stayed in the brig longer, Hawke would have had more peace and quiet. For the time being she'll learn to block out the nuisances of Lowtown. They're less bothersome than Isabela.

The hard wooden bed beneath her back is becoming intolerable. Aches and pains shoot through her body from time to time. She can't afford to invest the coin in a feather mattress. It would mean getting one for everybody and then how could they go on the expedition and buy back the Amell estate? Hawke sighs and goes to draw water for a bath. The pipes clank loudly. Finally the spout sputters out water that comes out a brown color for several minutes before turning a pale white and eventually clearing. Hawke massages the small of her back and waits impatiently. She gazes into the small, square mirror that her mother has hung above the chipped sink. The reflection is poor but it's enough. She touches her scar guiltily and sits at the edge of the tub until it's filled before stripping away her clothing and stepping in.

The dank bathroom is too dark. She sees a candle sitting on a cracked porcelain plate several feet away and lazily flicks her finger at it. The candle lights. Hawke sinks beneath the water, rests there for moments before resurfacing. She wipes the water from her face and pushes her hair back. She listens. Gamlen is being defensive while Leandra returns his words in that pleading pitiful way of hers.

A door slams followed by minutes of silence. Hawke is scrubbing her arms with a fleck of soap when her mother's soft weeping begins. Hawke goes still. She resumes her bath, finishes and dresses loudly. She leaves her hair loose but sits by the tub as the water drains. It gives her mother time to compose herself. Hawke extinguishes the candle with her thumb and forefinger and exits the bathroom. She grabs her staff and ties a small sack over the skull. She'd found the staff in the Korcari Wilds years ago with her father and Bethany. It is everything she doesn't want to show to the world but she can't bear to be parted with it. The blade on the bottom, at least, provides an alternative to magic in a fight.

"You're going out?" Leandra sits in the living room table with a book. Her smile is strained and forced. Her eyes are sad and still a little wet.

Hawke's heart hurts. She goes behind her, hugging her tightly, brushing a kiss onto her hair. "I'll be out tonight so don't worry about supper."

Leandra sighs and takes her hand when Hawke starts to go. "Where do you go until all hours of the night, Viktoria? You make me worry so much about you. I hardly ever see you or Carver anymore. Are you with him, at least?"

"You know Carver likes to keep to himself." Or at least away from his sister. "He hates to have me watch over him."

"Can't you be home tonight? Can't he? What about Aveline? She should be with us."

"She's guard captain now, Mother. She doesn't have time for…" She drops her head. "You should go out tonight." Hawke pulls out a sovereign and sets it on the table. "Meet up with one of your old friends and enjoy a nice restaurant in Hightown. You deserve that, at least. You can't sit here. You can't keep doing this, Mother.  _I_ can't." She pulls her hand away guiltily. "I'm sorry.”

* * *

 

Carver is exiting a room on the second floor of the Blooming Rose when Isabela spies him. She smiles, shakes her head in mock disappointment and waits for him to join her at the bottom of the stairs. "Is that the same girl you've visited the past few times? Oh, Carver. Hasn't anyone ever told you that getting attached to whores is a bad idea?"

"Don't worry Isabela; you're not my type."

"No?" She takes a kerchief and mops it gently across his sweaty forehead. His eyes soften. "What if I said I wanted to take you for the ride of your life? That I could squeeze you so hard you'd pop like a champagne cork? I'd still not be your type? Will wonders never cease?"

"Well, if you put it that way…" Carver says. "I can't say I'd complain." He nods at her to follow him as they go to the bar. He pulls back a chair and Isabela smirks. Chivalry lives. In Carver Hawke. Wonders willnever cease. "Can I get you a drink?"

"You can get me three, more later if you've the coin for it." Isabela orders drinks when the bartender with the thick handlebar mustache comes over and picks one out for Carver. The Blooming Rose is a far nicer establishment than the Hanged Man. She prefers the Hanged Man but the Blooming Rose has its perks. It smells better, for one. But there are also glorious whores and a good opportunity to spot marks perfect for purse cutting. If Hawke were smart she'd collect her fifty sovereigns the right way. She smiles—or Hawke could earn her keep like the other girls at the Blooming Rose. "Why does a nice boy like you keep coming here?"

"Is that a joke?” He asks. She laughs. “I'm not a nice boy." Carver takes a drink from his lowball glass. Isabela watches him. His eyes are far away. He's continuing to sweat. He takes another drink, finishes the glass. Impressive. He orders another. "I can have sex without coming here. It's just nice to not have to deal with all the attachments."

"Ah! Then you're smarter than you look." Isabela touches his arm when he turns to her heatedly, "Men as handsome as you aren't usually so clever." That mollifies him, just as expected. Boys are easy. He smiles, flattered and hunches more into himself. Isabela takes a careful drink. She leaves her hand on his muscled arm. The whore Carver just spent time with looks at Isabela jealously. Isabela slides her hand further up his arm. As far as she's concerned, Carver and the whore's business is done. "What's the use in looking so serious?" she asks. His chin is set hard, his eyebrows furrowed. "You've gotten your jollies for the evening—and you may yet have more."

"I just want another drink," he grouses.

Are all the Hawkes so foul tempered? They're positively insistent on being a miserable lot. "Have another drink!" Maybe it will do something for his spirits. It couldn't hurt things, anyway. "There's nothing a good drink can't fix. Trust me, I know." Most things, at least. She has a drink. She hadn't come here looking for Carver, there are a few girls who owe her some coin at the Blooming Rose and she'd come to collect. Still, it would have been a better idea to avoid the killjoy Carver. Ah, life's a bitch.

They spend considerable time in silence, Carver taking drink after drink until he's practically sliding off the barstool. Isabela smiles. All that bravado and he's a lightweight. He's half on the bar, half on the floor when Isabela decides to take advantage. "Your sister told me how she got that scar."

Carver blinks blearily at her. The melancholy expression on his face is replaced by indignant anger. "Oh great. So much for keeping it a bloody secret." Several of the bar patrons turn to them. Isabela gestures that everything is well. "So what now? Are you going to accuse me of being a jealous, younger brother? I was different then… and… It doesn't matter; it's done. It was an accident. A complete accident."

"Accidents don't tend to be half done." What is he going on about? She leans closer. Carver and intrigue—two things she'd never thought would go together. "But they're usually fun."

"This one wasn't. And she nearly bloody killed me after I did it. Literally." He rubs his eyes with the palm of his hand before swiping at his face. He's paler. "I hear what you and the others say about my sister and…and what she can do but don't let her fool you. She's a—… she's terrifying. I couldn't move, couldn't breathe. I could only taste blood in my mouth, feel it filling my lungs. I thought I was going to die. I never thought there was a need for templars until that moment." Carver glares at her. "I'll bet she left that part out, didn't she?"

"She did." She'd left it all out. So Carver had been the one to carve up Hawke's face. And here Varric had thought he'd never live up to his name. There's such a thing as taking sibling rivalry  _too_ far. Not that she can blame him, Hawke can be a pain in the ass. A twinge of guilt makes her shift in her seat. Why had Hawke lied about it? The woman is confounding. Nothing she does or says makes any damned sense. A mage who prefers to pick locks and steal instead of making top coin off her magic, an idiot who would rather stain her own name than bring up her brother's part in the scar. If it were her, Isabela thinks, she'd never let Carver live it down.

"If it weren't for Father I'd be dead." He growls. "I can't believe she bloody told you. What a bitch." Isabela considers correcting him but what's the point? He's so drunk he likely won't remember running his mouth. He orders another drink. "She always did prefer Bethany."

"Who's Bethany?"

* * *

 

"You'd think the Qunari presence would be enough to frighten the thugs away." Aveline says. Hawke found Aveline patrolling at the docks after an exhaustive search through Aveline's usual Kirkwall haunts. This isn't the patrol she usually takes and she typically has guards with her. "Shouldn't you be home with your mother? Don't tell me you're worried about me."

"Shouldn't I be? You're patrolling here at this time of night by yourself?" Hawke asks. Aveline makes a sound of complaint. "Woman-shaped battering ram or no, that isn't smart." Aveline makes another noise of discontent. Hawke knows that Aveline doesn't care for Isabela's description but it is accurate, as insulting as Isabela may have tried to make it sound.

"Then you're concerned because of my lack of guards." Aveline says tersely. Hawke walks silently beside her, keeping an eye out for any carta members that may be lurking in shadows. "You and Carver should be home."

"Mother asked that you visit tonight."

"I'm  _fine_." Aveline's patience is wearing thin. Her armor clinks. She takes hold of the hilt of her sword. "There's no one out," she says with some frustration. "Maybe the Qunari are frightening the carta away." Hawke nods. She thinks it's more likely they missed any gang activity or that they're specifically staying out of Aveline's way. "How are you?" Aveline asks softly.

"I'm worried about Mother and Carver."

"I'm worried about  _you._ "

"Don't." Hawke hates this day, this night. Two years ago they lost Lothering. Two years ago her family lost Bethany. Aveline lost Wesley. It's never easy. The days leading up to the anniversary of their deaths are harder. Today is hardest. Her limbs go tight. It's impossible to stay focused on anything for very long. Her mother and Carver have blamed her on separate occasions for Bethany's death. Her father would be disappointed in her. She should have trained Bethany more. She should have paid more attention. Bethany had saved their mother at the cost of her young life. Hawke forces the lump from her throat.

The swishing of fabric gets their attention. It's different from the sound of scurrying rats, the water lapping against the docks or litter being carried by the wind. Aveline points her sword in the direction of the noise. Hawke holds her staff tightly. Aveline walks closer and tsks, sheathing her sword again. "The greatest risk from this one is a sexual disease."

"I never tire of your delightful introductions," Isabela leaves the shadows and steps beneath the glow of one of the torched perched on the sandy stone wall. "Is that what you do on your lonely patrols, Aveline? Scheme up new ways to call me a whore? I'm glad I can bring a little excitement to your life. Maker knows you're not getting it anywhere else."

Aveline scowls. "Not tonight, Whore. I'm not in the mood."

"Even if you were I'm not willing to entertain you. You scare the piss out of men in the daytime, at night with all that sense of justice you're absolutely terrifying." Isabela looks Aveline over contemptuously before turning her attention to Hawke. "What about you? Where's your little joke? Come on, let's have it."

"I don't have a little joke for you." Hawke says blandly. Isabela smiles palely. Hawke looks uncomfortably to Aveline. She doesn't know how to continue their conversation now that Isabela has interrupted. If Hawke is private with the pain that she carries than Aveline is more so. Hawke worries for her. Finishing their conversation is pointless. She won't leave it for Isabela to hear and mock. Aveline nods, understanding Hawke's intent. "Goodnight, Aveline."

"Where's my goodnight, Hawke?" Isabela asks as she's walking away.

"Get it from someone else."

* * *

 

Isabela follows her. She won't admit it aloud to anyone but… she's curious. The Hawke siblings are in terrible spirits and even Aveline's face is more sour than usual. Aveline, however, isn't her concern. She has no intention of following  _her_ —Aveline's thrown her in the brig before and she'd been in something of a cheerful mood then. Tonight Aveline may well kill Isabela before she made it to the brig. Isabela will be damned if she dies without getting her bloody ship back. Ah, no matter…

Hawke is inexplicable as always. Isabela hadn't thought the apostate would make her way to Darktown. Isn't the point to move upward? Hightown isn't where Isabela would prefer to get her kicks but Darktown is disgusting—great for business, though. She wonders if her friend-fiction will come to pass. She wrote a particularly torrid one of Hawke and Anders getting filthy in his dirty clinic. Isabela smiles thinking of the story. Hawke had been surprised but exuberant when Justice made a timely arrival to turn the tryst between herself and Anders into the most unholy of threesomes.

Isabela shakes the thoughts. It looks as if Hawke  _is_ heading to Anders' clinic. What a naughty girl—but what a lovely surprise. No, scratch that. Hawke turns too soon and stops at the rubble just ahead of it. Oh, this place. The Amell tunnels? She vaguely recalls Varric telling her some about the home or legacy or estate but honestly it'd bored her and she'd tuned out. She follows after Hawke into the home. It's bloody dark.

"This was a beautiful idea," Isabela mutters to herself. Well. She'll find her way by touch. She's done it before, she'll do it again. It won't be as fun this go round. Except— her eyes sting at the sudden burst of flame. Isabela shields her eyes, trying to adjust to the light. A moment later, she does. Hawke walks ahead, holding out a hand aglow in fire. It doesn't appear to burn. Isabela quickly maneuvers around the clutter and follows after her.

Isabela has a talent for stealth but she doesn't know the layout to the home. Boards will creak and bend under weight. That Hawke hasn't noticed her presence can only mean she's distracted. She can't imagine what with. Carver never explained the reason for his bad mood. Unless it is only the burden of being the sibling to someone considered capable that is getting him down. Isabela follows through the various hallways and finds nothing appropriate for lifting. There's a good deal of dust coating every surface but she can find that anywhere.

Hawke stops in a room and sets her staff aside. Isabela hangs by the doorway as the apostate moves purposefully to a chest on the floor. She opens it. The hinges squeak in protest. Hawke rummages through the chest. She slams it shut not long after. Isabela gives up. She presents herself. "Empty chest?" she queries. "Is there anything quite so heartbreaking?"

Hawke is quickly on her feet, her fingers wrapping around the staff again. "What are you doing here?" She demands. Isabela takes a careful step back as Hawke takes an aggressive one forward. "Have you been following me this entire time?"

"I could say no," Isabela says. She shrugs. "But it'd be a lie."

"You're unbelievable."

"So what if I followed you? Doesn't Lady Man-Hands have you followed all the time? She does it out of love; I do it out of a sense of adventure. She's the pervert." Isabela notes how the fire burns brighter around Hawke's hand, circling up her arm like a vine. The room is bright now. There are books sitting neglected on well-made bookcases, a few oil paintings on the walls, others are on their side on the floor. "And so are you. Why are you skulking about here at this hour? What if there were slavers still about? You may smolder…literally even… when you pout but that's never done anyone in. Not me, anyway." She smiles. Hawke touches the glass that covers a dead torch on the wall. The fire races up her arm and ignites the torch, burning fiercely behind the glass. "Nice trick. You're like a veritable human torch. You must be a hit at parties."

Hawke slumps against the wall.

"What's the matter with you?" Isabela asks suspiciously. Hawke looks tired. "That's how you're supposed to look after we've finished an energetic wall screw." No reaction, big flipping surprise. "Did something happen? Or unhappen?" she jerks her chin towards the chest. Hawke is unresponsive. Isabela goes to the treasure chest. There are only papers, lists, property deeds that no longer matter. Nothing interesting. "I can see why you're disappointed. Merrill's chest is more impressive than this." Not that there's anything wrong with small chests. Sometimes those contain the best prizes. This one, however, is not one of them. She stands and kicks it shut. "You've really got something against smiling, don't you? I hope your face freezes that way. It would serve you right." But Hawke's face is so melancholy that Isabela would feel uncomfortable. Much like she does now. Emotion… ick. "Okay. Point proven. Silent treatment effective. I'm going. There are a few drinks at the Hanged Man with my name on them waiting to be drunk off either me or some other lucky sod."

Isabela exits the room. Once again Hawke has managed to waste her time. She can't be interesting if she tried. How can someone so attractive have no redeeming qualities whatsoever? Every time Isabela's imagination runs away from her and she thinks that Hawke  _might_ be interesting, Hawke crushes any fanciful illusion. It serves her right, really. She's known what Hawke is for close to a year now. Why would she become more interesting only to retire Isabela's boredom?

Now she has to make her way out in the darkness. Bollocks. Where's the human torch when she needs her? There's a glow behind her and Isabela stops. "Going to escort me out personally, are you? I wasn't going pilfer anything." Isabela protests. "There's nothing worth stealing." Hawke is so serious that Isabela momentarily wonders if she's gone mad and aims to kill her. What a tragic, dusty place to die. "Unless you're a virgin." She laughs. Hawke moves closer, her expression murderous. "Hey. It was a joke. Do you know what those are?" She lifts her arms. Sod it. There's no point. "I'm going now. Settle down."

Hawke takes her face in her hands. Isabela feels every fingertip acutely against her skin. She touches Hawke's arms, meaning to push her away. Hawke guides her to a wall. Pins her there. Hawke's hair is loose, falling over her face and shoulders. In the dim light she looks like another woman altogether, someone sinister and dangerous. Like a witch of the wilds. The blue of her eyes pulse in the darkness. Isabela is excited.

She straightens against the wall, lifts her chin. Cocks a smile. Her lips graze Hawke's jaw. "You still won't smile for me?" she rises on her tiptoes and breathes the words into Hawke's ears. "I don't give away kisses for nothing." She bites Hawke's ear tenderly, brushes her lips against Hawke's cheek, her mouth.

"I have to go back to my mother."

Isabela blinks. "Sorry… is she joining us or…?" Why drop such an icy shower of words on her? She may as well have said that she was a virgin and looking for a commitment. Isabela shivers. "Have you not done this before? We don't talk about mothers here. Unless yours happened to have a part in any marital arrangements." She tries not to think of him. "And not even then."

"What?" Hawke is dazed. She looks at Isabela as if only then noticing her and withdraws.

"Visit me tonight," Isabela grabs Hawke's hips, yanks her so they're pressed together. Hawke lowers her head and releases a soft breath. "It'll be fun." Isabela says seductively. "There's this trick I do with my tongue that's guaranteed to turn your legs to jelly. Believe me, it's better than it sounds." She can't see Hawke's face but she touches it. It isn't warm. Can the woman not be shamed or embarrassed? "You're really going to tease and leave me? I didn't think we'd spent enough time together for you to start picking up on my bad habits."

"I'll think about it," Hawke says.

They exit together but go their separate ways.

* * *

 

They're gathered at Gamlen's home: Gamlen, Leandra, Carver, Aveline, Hawke. They play cards. Aveline tells Leandra and Gamlen about the exciting going-ons in the guard and the interesting news of the city. She says little of Wesley.

Leandra recalls Malcolm and Bethany, smiling tenderly at the memories, asking Carver and Hawke whether they remember the occasions as well. Neither sibling is talkative. Eventually, Carver retreats to the room in the middle of a card game.

Hawke follows him not long after. He sits in the chair in front of the desk beside the bed. His face is red but he carries not an inch of humor that the alcohol tends to give him. He looks at her angrily. "I can't believe you told Isabela about your scar." He says. "As if things aren't bad enough."

"What does it matter?" she'd told her a story that was only partially true. "How are you doing?"

"How do you think?" Carver ducks his chin. Hawke rests her head against the wall. "I know you were close but she was my twin sister. She was my other half. She was…a part of me. Maybe that's stupid." Hawke shakes her head. "And I bloody miss her. Oh, why couldn't it have been you?"

She's stung. "I wonder the same.” It’s difficult to speak. “I wish it had been."

Carver covers his face. His words are muffled. "I didn't mean that. I wish it had been me. One of us. She was better than us both."

"She was." Hawke doesn't tell him that she'd tried to find an old portrait of their mother. She thought she'd seen one the first time they'd visited the old Amell home, buried in a chest. She hadn't picked it up at the time. Maybe it was only fanciful thinking. She'd wanted to recover it… their mother had looked like Bethany in her youth. They'd lost everything they'd had in Lothering and Hawke is starting to forget her sister's face. It frightens her that one day it may be gone altogether.

Carver's words are strangled. "Maker, I still see it."

Hawke doesn't have to ask what 'it' is. She settles a hand on his shoulder. They shake. He doesn't lower his hands, he doesn't make a sound but Hawke sees tears seep from his fingers. She pretends not to notice. She stays with him until the shaking subsides and then exits the room.

"Your mother has gone to bed," Gamlen informs her. He's playing a game of solitaire, the cards scattered at angles on the table. Hawke suspects he's cheating. "And before you ask the guard woman has left. I hate sitting around with people feeling sorry for themselves. We didn't even gamble any coin; the night was a complete loss."

"You bastard," Hawke slams a hand down on the table. The cards scatter and go into other piles, others fall off the table and onto the floor. Gamlen tries to reach for the cards but Hawke steps on them. The anger rises like volcanic ash. "What else do you have to do but whore at the Blooming Rose? You've already pissed away Mother's inheritance. Don't you give a damn about anyone but yourself? Your niece is dead, your sister's daughter—doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"I never knew the girl." Gamlen says defensively. "It's sad but…" He shakes his head. Then he turns his shadowed eyes on Hawke. "She was your sister. I haven't seen you shed a tear. You look the way you always do, you icy bitch. Keep up that attitude of yours. You're still stuck here in Lowtown with me and your mother. Acting like you're better than me with all that filthy magic running through your veins." He grumbles. "Go ahead and glare at me all you want but you can't do a damned thing. Try it. I'll report you to the templars so fast it will make your head spin." Gamlen flinches when Hawke brings her face close to his. "We…" he stammers, "wouldn't want to upset your mother."

Hawke keeps her hand at the bottom of the table. It takes all of her willpower to not flip it over on top of him. She exits the small home quickly, walking first and then jogging. Soon she's running through the night. But she can't outrun anything.

* * *

 

Isabela steps aside. Hawke looks like Hawke again, cold and controlled. Her eyes sweep over the room peripherally before her gaze touches on Isabela and then moves off of her again. Hawke enters. Isabela shuts the door behind her.

Isabela thinks of the conversation she had with Varric upon returning to the Hanged Man. The dwarf was in the midst of a card game with Fenris and a few other men that Isabela hadn't recognized. Isabela drank a pint while waiting for him to finish the card game and made the usual talk with him. An off-handed comment about the ill-natured Hawkes and Aveline had prompted a sobering of his previously cheerful face.

" _Well, shit. It's that time again, isn't it? Two years ago today they all lost something valuable, Rivaini."_

_People lose things. They move on. "Coin?"_

_Varric shook his head slowly. "Nothing you can get back in a card game, that's for sure."_

" _I asked dear Hawke to come visit me for a little pillow-talk. She might lower herself,” she grinned, “to indulge me."_

" _Not tonight. Trust me—she shows up, turn her away. What she's got isn't anything you want."_

But Hawke has shown up. Isabela told Varric, grudgingly, that she would send Hawke on her merry way. But she has come so very far. All the way from her Uncle's! And Isabela doesn't know when or if she'll get another chance to bed her…

Isabela regards her. Hawke’s energy is unsettling. It's something that is felt rather than seen. It's faintly familiar and mildly repellant. Also frightening. That's something, at least. There's no game like a dangerous game. Hawke looks like a cautious predator waiting for the opportunity to strike. Isabela knows when she's being flanked, knows that Hawke seems to move carelessly but is approaching steadily. Isabela can smell her now, a hint of the ocean and a chill night breeze. If she was a ghost before she isn't one tonight. "I just know I'm going to regret asking but…is everything all right with you?"

"Yes." There's no hesitation. She pulls Isabela to her.

Isabela looks at her face, stern but on the verge of folding. "You're sure nothing's bothering you? I don't want to hear about it if there is," she adds, "but I do want to make sure."

Her voice is lower still, throaty. "Yes." She kisses her.

Isabela kisses her back. The kiss is barely there. Isabela has to seek it. She breaks the kiss and wipes at her mouth as if she'd just eaten something distasteful. "Then do it harder, Hawke. I'd hate to fall asleep during what's supposed to be a wildly spectacular fuck."

"I don't want to hurt you."

Isabela laughs. Hurt her? How could she do that? Isabela isn't attached. She isn't planning on being attached. Especially to Viktoria Hawke. But…if she's planning on rough sex Isabela already wants to go again. "Trust me, you won't." The words are no sooner out of her mouth when Hawke shoves her to the bed. She follows her onto it with deadly focus. This is more like it. They kneel in front of each other. They wait only a moment.

Hawke's mouth takes Isabela's. Isabela wants more. Hawke can't get her clothing off fast enough for Isabela's liking but Hawke's fingers move deftly, peeling away her clothing, lips following every inch of exposed skin. Surprising, for a cold fish.

Isabela jerks at the belts around Hawke's coat. The woman makes it damned hard to go from clothed to stripped in seconds but she won’t be deterred. She unfastens belts and throws them aside; they can be used later. She rips the red sash from Hawke's waist and lifts it, making it like a red hood over Hawke's head before winding it around her forehead, folding it into a blindfold, slipping it down to cover Hawke's eyes.

They're unbearable.

Hawke hurts her. She holds too hard, bites too deeply. It's the good kind of hurt. The usual side effects of hard sex…but different. Pain is followed by warmth. Every scratch is mended, every bruise erased before it has the chance to form. Hawke is a beast, crushing her, healing her. Isabela wants to tell her there's no need but her mouth is occupied. Sex magic? She chuckles. A new one for the books.

Hawke strains Isabela's voice. With Hawke's eyes covered, Isabela can read nothing of what she's thinking. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips parted sensually. It suits her. Isabela traces Hawke’s scar with her thumb. Hawke freezes. A kiss to her trembling lips stirs her back to life. Isabela trails her hands up Hawke's back, to her neck, delving into her hair, pulling it back from her face. She takes the material of the blindfold in her fingers, considers pulling it back. She leaves it where it is. She prefers them blinded.

* * *

* * *

 

A/N: Man. It's been years since I've even looked at this story. Looking back is fun. I'd forgotten how much I love Hawke and Isabela. (Rivalmance!) Thanks for the lovely feedback, everyone!


	3. Chapter 3

Hawke doesn't follow up with any tenderness. Isabela's relieved. She doesn't want Hawke to think it meant anything. Hawke removes the blindfold and dresses, her back to Isabela who lounges like a satisfied cat, arching her back and stretching lazily, enjoying the view. She counts the scratches on Hawke's skin, the places where she bit or sucked too hard, leaving the flesh dark red, like a rose. "So, will we be doing this again?"

Hawke finishes dressing, wrapping the red sash around her waist. The belts are latched and cinched tightly. Now there is no indication that anything has happened between them. She glances back at Isabela. "Don't count on it." She pauses at the door. Considers a moment. "Thanks for this." She exits.

Isabela can't find anything quickly enough to throw at her. Who does Hawke think she is? She thinks on her briefly. Now that Hawke is gone and she has no one to entertain her, exhaustion sets in. She wraps her arms around the pillow beside her. Ah, pillow. She can think of nothing better to hold as she drifts off to sleep.

* * *

 

Hawke's hand is still wrapped around the doorknob when Varric exits his room. They both freeze. He lifts an eyebrow. Maker. Hawke releases the door but knows it's too late to salvage the situation.

Varric looks up to the grimy window on the roof. Pale morning light streams in. He looks back to Hawke. "Do I spy with my little eye Hawke doing the walk of shame?"

_Shit._ "There's no need to insult your eyes, Varric. I think they're the perfect size. Like you." Hawke says. He waits. "How can I do a walk of shame when I'm standing perfectly still?" Petrified. She grins. "Perhaps I'm out for an early stroll?"

"You were wearing that yesterday."

"Oh, Varric. You men have no sense of fashion. I have many varying outfits; the difference is in the details. You may be a handsome rogue but I wouldn't say you're a paragon of fashion." She leaves Isabela's door and goes to him, cocks her head. "Are you jealous? I'm always happy to spend the night tonight. Or any night. Maker knows there's plenty of room. Or we can go now, if you'd prefer."

"Hawke." He sniffs her. Many years of discipline prevent her from making a face. "You're sweaty. Don’t make me say it."

"I exercise. How do you think I stay so trim?" It certainly couldn't have anything to do with the lack of food.

"Did I ever tell you you're adorable when you're dancing around a subject?"

"You think I'm adorable? This day only gets better and better."

"So you're blushing because I think you're adorable and  _not_ because you were caught?"

"Why else? Look, you've said it again." She touches a hand to her cheeks. "I'm going to melt with all this adoration you're heaping on me."

"Hawke…" Varric looks at her steadily. Hawke shifts her weight and looks away. "You all right?"

She crosses her arms. Leave it to Varric to remember the inconvenient details she's shared with him. "Perfectly. Look, don't go inventing stories about… whatever you have a tendency to invent stories about. Unless they involve us in the sack. I'd be happy for you to share with the world how you fell into the sky from my passionate lovemaking."

Varric chuckles. "I'll leave those stories to Rivaini. It won't get out from me. But you know how she talks." Hawke shrugs. "So…"

"So I'm not talking about it, Varric," she says sharply. Then her tone softens. "I wouldn't want to rub it in your face." She smiles. "Look… I'm fine. So don't worry. You know how that sends my heart a flutter." She ruffles his hair and moves on her way.

* * *

 

Isabela spots Varric entering the Hanged Man. She's only been up for a few hours but there is no bad time or designated time to drink—leave those silly rules to the common and unimaginative. "On second thought, dear Corrf, let's have a pitcher of your cheapest beer!" It all tastes like piss anyway, may as well save the coin. She calls over to Varric, points at a table and meets him there with a pitcher and glasses. "Just the dwarf I've been wanting to see." She slides onto the bench across from him and pours him a pint.

"I hate to ruin a good surprise but I already know what you're going to say." Varric thanks her and takes a drink of the beer. He pulls back to look at the glass, wipes at the inside of the rim with his finger and resumes drinking. "You went ahead and did it anyway. I'm disappointed in you, Rivaini."

"So Hawke ruined the surprise then? I thought I was the only one to kiss and tell."

"I caught her trying to sneak out this morning. She doesn't have the knack for it that we do."

"She's a bloody apostate, I'd hate for her to be good at two things." Well, three. Varric looks at her, disapprovingly. She doesn't see what the big deal is. This is the kind of thing they tend to laugh about together. "I'm not going to pass up sex—no matter how politely you ask. We're both adults. If we want to fuck, we'll fuck. I won't apologize for that." Isabela is surlier than she means to be. She threads her fingers through her hair distractedly.

He smiles grimly. Has another drink of beer. "So…? I really hate that you're making me ask."

She smirks. "I'm really twisting your arm, aren't I?" She refills his glass and takes a slow drink, relishing the refreshing temperature, a stark and delightful contrast to the Hanged Man that's particularly stuffy tonight. "As it turns out, you were right. I shouldn't have done it. It was bloody awful."

"Really?" he arches his eyebrows. "I'm surprised."

"So was I! What a letdown." She thinks of the effort she makes for her voice to not come out raspy. She clears her throat and remembers Hawke's hot breath in the crook of her neck, how she had been both gentle and violent. Distant but too close. How she had given too much but not enough. Who does that?

"Well… there's nothing saying it has to happen again. Can you keep it quiet?"

Isabela groans. "Oh, Varric, don't ruin this for me. If I can't knock her down a few notches there's no point. She always gives me shit." How dare she fucking thank her as if she'd only been a whore for hire? She hadn't even paid! And if she'd tried, Isabela would have gutted her. "You do realize she wasted  _my_ time?"

"I guess I can't stop you," he says.

But Isabela can tell that he's angry. She sees the subtle settling of his thick eyebrows. It's strange. She doesn't do favors for people. She always talks about the fun had in bed. Not that it was—oh bollocks, it was fun. But for Hawke to act like she's superior after the things they had done pisses her off. She's not going to keep any secrets for her. Keeping secrets for others… it means too much. And Viktoria Hawke means nothing.

* * *

 

Hawke hates the Gallows. She knows she shouldn't. The Circle has value but her body always flinches involuntarily upon entering, a reaction to the cold steel of the templars and their colder gaze. They watch her too closely. People are beginning to learn her name, they know who her mother is, they know who her father was. Sometimes she suspects they know what she is. Magic runs through her veins, like it ran in her father's, like it ran in the Amell line leading to their loss of status. She looks up to the statues of the magisters directing and leading slaves who are broken and in despair.

"You can't bring me here," Feynriel says to Hawke who ignores him. He looks desperately to Fenris who glowers in response. Merrill settles her green eyes on Fenris hatefully before turning the same eyes pleadingly to Hawke. Anders mutters under his breath. "Please.” She can’t listen. "How can you do this to me?"

"You're a menace," Fenris says to Feynriel. "Be grateful you're being brought here."

"What does that mean?" Anders demands. "If it were up to you, you'd kill the poor boy for being what he is? He has harmed no one." He glares at Hawke. "You're unbelievable."

"An untrained mage is a danger to everyone," she says. "Demons are whispering to him in his dreams. If he becomes an abomination and goes on a rampage, will you have that on your conscience?"

"You can't damn him when he's done nothing," Anders says heatedly. "What is wrong with you? How can you be such a bloody hypocrite?"

"Demons are just spirits," Merrill adds, her voice carries an edge. Hawke glances at her. Merrill's gaze is razor sharp.

"No, they aren't," Anders says gruffly to Merrill.

"Both of you shut up." Hawke is tired of their constant bickering. They both claim to support mages but both approach the matter so irresponsibly that Hawke can't abide them. Anders, with his constant incendiary speeches does more harm than good. Merrill chose willingly to partake in blood magic. They grate her. It's no wonder mages are feared. "The decision has been made."

"Maker forbid we disagree with the great Hawke," Anders follows after her, looking gloomier and gloomier still. "I escaped from the Circle, I escaped from the Wardens, should I be turned in, too?"

"If it were my decision, yes," Fenris says.

Hawke looks at the elf. She isn't sure what to make of him. He is agreeable and handsome. She understands why he loathes magic and like Aveline he sees the need for the Circle. Varric doesn't approve of how speaks to 'Blondie' and 'Daisy' but Varric is too easy going. He tolerates her, after all. "Don't speak for me," Hawke tells Fenris. His eyebrows dip lower. Anders helps those who would otherwise die. He runs a clinic at the risk of his life. That is valuable and good. Whatever problem Hawke has with him and Justice, it can be overlooked. For the time being. "As long as you continue to pose no danger to anyone I see no reason to turn you in."

"What exactly classifies a danger?" Anders asks.

"Don't act as if you don't know."

"And if I were to pose a danger?" he snaps. "What would the refugee Fereldan rat do then?"

Hawke pays no mind to the slurs her throws at her. If she's a refugee Fereldan rat then so is he. He's the one that practically live in the sewers. "I wouldn't waste the templars' time," Hawke says. She gets tired of his provocations. "Nor would I  _talk_ to you about what I'd do."

Fenris chuckles appreciatively. Merrill shoots another vindictive look in her direction. Hawke doesn't return it. If Merrill wants to hate her she's welcome to. She's not the idiot practicing blood magic. The group walks past a slew of templars. Hawke forces herself to relax. Tells herself to. It's difficult. She's shoved gently. Her heart jumps. She looks around wildly. Anders sneers.

"Guess you're not so tough after all." His brown eyes are cold. Hawke hadn't thought eyes that color could be. "Try living with that kind of attention your entire life. That's what you're sentencing this boy to."

Hawke grabs fierce hold of Feynriel's arm and yanks him along the Gallows courtyard, templars and tranquil turn to look at the display. Hawke practically throws him at Thrask. "Here. Train him."

Thrask gives her coin. It's heavy in the palm of her hand. She forces her fingers to close around the coins.

"How's your blood money, Hawke?" Merrill asks as they walk away.

"Would you like to join him?" Hawke retorts. The previously sunny day is occluded by clouds. A darkness descends on the Gallows. She's doing the right thing. The unpopular thing. The responsible thing.

But she still feels sick to her stomach.

* * *

 

Hawke left no mark and behaves no differently around her. Isabela wonders if she imagined their night together. Isabela watches her more than she should, wondering if Hawke will reveal any hint of what happened, but she's _good_. There isn't a stray glance, there isn't an unnecessary word. Isabela can't read her eyes. She knows that the only time when she might have seen into them was when she purposely hid their gaze.

Well. It doesn't matter anyway.

Hawke walks out of the Hanged Man without a word or look to Isabela as Merrill walks in. The women exchange icy looks before Merrill comes to sit at Isabela's table, complaining about the events with Feynriel.

Isabela listens but can't get worked up about it like Merrill does. Merrill grows more and more agitated. Isabela tells her about what happened with 'the blighter' Hawke, just to take Merrill's mind off things. Varric doesn't count and Hawke doesn't deserve the courtesy of confidentiality. Merrill is appalled and then curious. Isabela spares no details but embellishes some and downplays others.

"It all sounds so wonderful," Merrill says, "but I still can't stand her. Did she talk much?"

"No. She's too much of a prig for dirty talk."

"Then maybe it would have been fine. But I wouldn't complain about dirty talk. I can't imagine Hawke talking dirty. Unless it's something terrible about mages."

"Settle down, Kitten."

Merrill's cheeks are red as she contemplates the wild scenario that Isabela spun for her. "This isn't going to be something serious, is it?" Merrill reaches across the table and takes her hand delicately. It is almost impossible to keep from laughing but Isabela manages not to. Merrill looks so earnest it would be mean to laugh.

"Serious? What does that word mean?" Isabela asks. "Don't worry, Kitten. It isn't in my vocabulary."

"Oh good." Merrill breathes a sigh of relief. "Hawke's awful. Sometimes I think she's crazy. She's an apostate and she still does the things she does. Why does she help templars? Does she hate herself or something?"

"I happen to think that's the least boring thing about her." Isabela says. Merrill looks at her, clearly taken aback. The elf withdraws her hand. "But she's still bloody mad," she adds.

"Maybe I should try to talk to her. Sway her opinion. She seems smart. Sometimes."

"I'll leave the talking to you," Isabela says. Personally, she isn't interested.

* * *

 

The room is hot. Hawke shifts on the uncomfortable wooden bed; she'd sleep better in a coffin. Well, she is an apostate. She's sure someone would be more than happy to accommodate her. She throws the thin bed sheet off. It collects at her feet and she kicks it away before turning on her side. She can't get settled.

She thinks of Feynriel. Arianni had been pleased but she wonders what her own mother would think. Hawke doesn't like telling her what she does to get coin.

She isn't wrong to turn in loose apostates. Her father taught her and Bethany. It's different. She knows how to control her powers. She knows how dangerous it is to have untrained mages loose. That's how they become blood mages and abominations. That's how they slaughter innocents without meaning or… how they think they can just hire themselves out to some Kirkwall citizen who fills their pockets with coin. Then something terrible happens.

Anders and Merrill hate her. They're welcome to. She doesn't much like them either. She rubs at her forehead. Her thoughts are racing. Carver in the bunk below is snoring softly. She wonders what it must be like to have some peace of mind. Hawke slips out of bed, jumping down quietly from the bunk. She looks at her staff, considers taking it before leaving it and exiting into the night.

It's humid out. The thickness of the air wraps around her like a blanket she can't shrug off. She keeps her head low and heads to the docks, avoiding the shadier individuals she passes. She isn't in the mood for a fight and if a guard catches her wielding magic she'll really be in for it. If the carta of Kirkwall want to kill one another then she won't intervene. They will save her the trouble of doing it later when they no doubt find some reason for taking her out.

The docks are cooler than Lowtown. Hawke sees the usual suspects but avoids them. She'd rather not talk or kill if she can help it. She finds a nice spot and takes a seat. A few ships are docked. Isabela always talks about sailing and ships but Hawke's only experience was the trip to Kirkwall. She can go without doing that again.

Sooner or later Isabela is going to find a ship, or steal one and disappear. Whatever this relic is that she's lost, she must know what it is. Isabela can't resist temptation. Nor apparently, can she. Hawke frowns and swings her legs slowly off the side of the dock but her feet don't touch the water.

Hands light on her shoulder, sliding lower until thin arms have wrapped around her, breasts pressed to her back. Lips brush her neck. Hawke grabs the hand that touches on her collar bone and turns her head. They kiss briefly. It is familiar, enjoyable but unremarkable.

"You Fereldan apostates are better at hiding than most of those idiots I have working for me." Athenril takes a seat beside her. "Where have you been, Hawke? I've had a few jobs lined up for you. You're not still too good to take my jobs, are you?"

"I'm never too good to work for you as long as I'm in dire need of coin."

"I'm glad to hear it." Athenril says dryly. "Sometimes I think you're the only Fereldan worth its salt around these parts." She sighs with exasperation. "Some of those rats cost me more money than they make me. I should have known you wouldn't be easy to replace. You're one of a kind, Hawke."

"I'm good for business." Hawke doesn't pretend that Athenril cares about anything else. "I don't want to talk about work."

"You have other uses. What should we talk about? Or you would you prefer we not talk at all?"

Hawke doesn't look at her. She hasn't seen Athenril in weeks. She hadn't realized it'd been so long: she hasn't missed her. Athenril is attractive, a ruthless business woman, clever and attentive. She taught her a few things about stealing and cutting purses, about traps and about what she likes in bed. It was fun. It made the year of servitude go by faster. And Athenril is always obliging. Aside from the fact that she's tried to cheat Hawke in the past and is a self-serving bitch in general, Hawke likes her. "I just want to be alone."

Athenril laughs. "Ah, so the reason for your mysterious absence reveals itself. Who's warming your bed, Hawke?"

"Nobody wants to warm my bed. Trust me."

"I don't trust anybody. We share that in common. You've been spending a lot of time with that pirate whore."

"Does everyone in bloody Kirkwall spy on me?" She hasn't been spending any time with her at all.

"Looks like the templars are the only ones asleep on the job," she smiles, "or maybe they're at the Blooming Rose. Can't forget that. Isabela runs her girls pretty well—does she run you better?"

Hawke stares at the reflection of the moon in the water. It glints off the crests of the water like tiny knives. "You assume too much." About her, about her and Isabela about her and Athenril. All of it is nothing.

* * *

 

Isabela sits in front of an array of items. Her girls did well tonight. With what they brought in they'll make a good amount of coin. It's too bad they have to split it several ways. She'll get the biggest take but maybe it's time she starts letting some of the girls go. She suspects some of the bitches are taking more from the pot than they're giving. She doesn't blame them but she won't tolerate it. She values the goods in a ledger.

Hawke is on the second floor doing something similar. A stack of small crates are beside her. She pulls the lid from each crate, digs through the straw to withdraw bottles of iridescent poisons. Hawke doesn't look at them in the same way that Isabela or Aveline might. They neither excite nor offend her.

Isabela finishes her inventory and shuts the book she works in, wrapping a ribbon around it to shut it. She takes the creaky wooden stairs to the second floor and pulls a bottle out. This one in particular shines red. It works well in wines or on knives during a fight. The poison gets into the bloodstream quickly and provokes heart attacks. Isabela slips the vial snugly into her boot.

Hawke doesn't look up from the ledger she writes in. "Put it back."

"What if I don't?"

"You'll put it back."

Isabela doesn't miss the implication. "You're such a bore. Haven't you ever tried sex to resolve a situation, or charm? Not just threats of violence? You're savage." Isabela thinks of how Hawke drew blood, how she healed her just as easily. And here she is, calculating the costs of poisons without so much as a look to her. Isabela puts the poison back. "You haven't paid me another visit."

"Why should I?"

Isabela settles her hands on her hips. "I'm not the sort of girl you regret taking to bed." Hawke writes down several more figures. "Is that habit for you? One night stands?" Hawke goes to the crate, digs through, frowns, pulls it back and sets it down and begins to look through another. The worry on her brow dissipates; she pulls out a blue vial, makes a note and goes back to the other poisons on the table. "I  _adore_ one night stands. They're much more fun than final stands. But now and then I don't mind making an exception."

"Mh," Hawke says. She scribbles.

Isabela narrows her eyebrows. Minutes pass.

"Varric mentioned you had a sister: Bethany." Isabela says. Varric had told her after Isabela had pestered him about his so-called concern for Hawke. He'd given little details but it was more than Hawke ever had. Carver was unhappy to fill in the rest but he had. Dropping the name has the desired effect. Hawke finally stops and looks at Isabela. "You've never spoken of her."

Hawke looks back at the ledger. Then begins to write again. "You didn't know her. What's the point?"

"He said you were close."

"We were." The words short out awkwardly. "Then she died." Her expression is flat. "Drop it, Isabela."

"I can't imagine you being close to anybody."

"Good." She grips the quill more tightly. "I'd hate for you to imagine anything involving me."

"How did she die?"

"She died too young." She sets the ledger down and picks up a crate cover that's on its side beside the table. She slams it atop of a crate and brings her fist down roughly on the corners to seal it shut. "Is this your idea of making idle conversation?" She still doesn't look at her. "You're disgusting."

"Is that why you came to me the other night?" Weeks ago, really. "Thought you'd drown your sorrows in the arms of the pirate whore?" Isabela smiles wryly. "Or are you going to tell me you have no sorrows whatsoever? Which is worse, Hawke? For me to think that you're capable of emotion or to think that you don't give a damn about your dead sister? Not that family has to mean anything. Maybe she was another self-centered brat like your brother. Do you really wish it'd been Carver who died?"

"You're really doing this?" Viktoria asks angrily. Her eyes are deadly. "What do you want to talk about? It was sex. As I recall, you didn't mind. You aren't innocent."

"Innocent?" Who said anything about that?

"Don't say my sister's name. Don't speak to me about her or my brother or my relationships. Do you understand? My personal life, my past is my own. I won't share it with you. I don't owe you anything."

"Maker, you're a hard ass! I can see why Carver cut your face open." As soon as she's said it, she realizes that she shouldn't have. In fact, she probably shouldn't have said any of it. Isabela takes a breath and looks at the poisons spread out on the table. Balls. She's grateful for not having said that Carver sees a need for templars because of Hawke. Her slips of tongue will be the death of her. If Hawke hadn't been such a pain in the ass, maybe she wouldn't have said it. All she wants is a proper bed partner—not some pissed off apostate. If she gets her angry enough she'll turn into an abomination and they don't tend to be very fun at all.

"This conversation is finished," Hawke says all emotion drained from her voice.

"I'll see myself out."

Hawke has no response for her.

* * *

 

The cards are stacked against Hawke. She can't get a winning hand. Varric loves it. Hawke wonders if she's always been this bad at cards. She'd really like to win—she's angry at Varric for having spoken to Isabela about her family, a topic she swiftly brought up the next time she encountered the dwarf. He was contrite and apologetic. He also reminded her to relax.

Fenris sits beside her and Aveline across from her. Aveline's notoriety for being awful at cards is working in her favor tonight. They're underestimating her and she's won more times than they'd like. Fenris talks angrily under his breath, rubbing his metal encased fist agitatedly over his face, speculating on the amount of coin he owes. Varric instigates him further leading to Fenris playing poorer hands.

"Are all dwarves so cagey?" Fenris asks throwing some coin angrily in Varric's direction.

"Varric’s just special," Hawke says, throwing a few silvers at the dwarf. "You're determined to not let me go on this expedition, aren't you?" She scowls at her cards and throws them down. "I'm done for the night." There's no sense in continuing to lose coin.

"Giving up already, Hawke?" Varric wraps an arm around the coin and drags it in his direction, stacking the coins in small piles. Hawke thinks he complains often about the bad habits of dwarves given how many traits he shares with them. "At least put up a fight. You may yet win your coin back."

"Oh no, you won't goad me with that again." She's fallen victim to it too many times and her empty pockets are the proof.

"Hawke, would this face lie to you?"

"You're capable of anything else?" Aveline asks.

Varric shuffles the cards several times over, ignoring Aveline's pointed tone. He distributes the cards, sending some in front of Hawke despite her protests. She's got her fingertips on the them when a shadow falls over the table. She looks up to see Isabela, who grabs Hawke's beer, has a drink before setting it down beside her. "Let's talk," she says.

"I'm in the middle of a card game." Hawke says. She doesn't want to talk to Isabela. She doesn't want to look at her.

"You haven't even started." Isabela lifts Hawke's cards and looks at them. "Come on, Big Girl," she says to Aveline who throws down her cards. Fenris does the same. She and Varric share a long look. He plays his cards. Isabela laughs. Varric groans. "I win again. Just put what you owe me on my tab."

"Those were my cards," Hawke protests. The one hand that night she might have won…

"As if you were going to win. Anyway, I've played your hand so why don't you come with me now?" She pauses, smiles at that. "I don't mind continuing our last conversation here." She looks at Aveline and the others. "If you don't."

Aveline and Fenris look curiously at her. Hawke bites her tongue and gets to her feet. "Make it quick, then." She follows Isabela outside and takes a step past the door but goes no further. There's a man who vomits copiously only several feet away from her. The bile splashes over the sandy stone in chunks. Hawke wrinkles her nose. She hates those who indulge to excess. "What is it?"

Isabela stops walking. She looks back to the vomiting man and then to Hawke. "This…isn't exactly where I had in mind to talk."

"No? This is where you live. Where you spend your free time. This is the Lowtown filth that you love, isn't it?"

"You're still angry." Isabela sighs. "Maybe I was out of line. It's your fault for being impossible to talk to." She walks.

Hawke reluctantly follows. They leave the music that carries in the wind and the acidic smell in the air. "I won't have you use my family to get to me. If you want to say something, say it directly."

"Getting straight to the point is like skipping foreplay; it may sound like a good idea at the time but then it's over and done with before you really get to enjoy yourself." She slips into an alley. A cat yowls and springs out of Isabela's way before tapping over to Hawke and rubbing its tail along her leg. Hawke frowns at it but looks to Isabela. "Speaking of enjoying oneself… that's really what I meant to get into last time you got huffy." Hawke crosses her arms. Isabela has a lot of nerve. As always she has missed the point or her role in the unhappy matter. "Varric made it seem like you'd been going through a difficult time." Curse Varric. It may be true but it isn't any of Isabela's business. It isn't any of his. She'll have to be more careful with what she reveals in the future. "You've acted like it was only a fuck. You asked me to be direct: is that all it was?"

Hawke hears the moan of a whore in the distance. "What else could it be?"

"I'm not looking for love. Apparently, neither are you." Isabela smiles contentedly. "That's good. I don't want to be there for you when you're down. Life is so sad already. No need to add any more sadness to it. I'm in it for me, not for you. So get your knickers untwisted." She pushes Hawke lightly to the wall. The cat around Hawke's leg scampers out of the alley. "Now that that's out of the way… there's no reason we can't still share some jollies, is there?" Hawke looks at her suspiciously. She knew that the matter had been too easily resolved. There's a catch. Of course there's a catch. When isn't there? "It's win-win. I get sex, free of charge and you get a reason for living, at least a few hours at a time. What do you say? You haven't even seen what I can really do."

"Blindfolds hinder what one can see." Darkness usually tends to as well but Isabela's eyes sparkle amber in the darkness, a honeyed champagne color, bright, cheerful and mischievous. …Magnetic.

"You minded?"

"No." She has no memories of that night, nothing outside of the sensory. The feel of Isabela's skin, the way her voice arched, how her breaths pounced, spiked and withdrew, knifelike. Her sure hands and skillful mouth, the heat of her body. She can only imagine what it is that she looked like when locked in passion.

"So…?"

She'd allowed it to happen once. It'd caused too much trouble and incurred too much attention from all parties. It had been weakness on her part but it had been…satisfying. It had calmed her. "We shouldn't."

"I only want it more when you say that."

"I don't like you."

"I didn't know," Isabela says with a capricious grin.

"You don't like me."

"What's that have to do with anything? You're running out of excuses. I like you in bed. You like  _me_ in bed. Does it need to be anything more?"

Does it? It wouldn't be anything new. She's done much the same with Athenril. Attachments aren't anything she should involve herself in. There are other things that need her attention. She thinks of her parents who were so in love. Maybe that was a different time. Maybe those things don't exist anymore. Especially for an apostate in Kirkwall. And especially with Isabela. "I won't blindly throw myself into a situation."

"So we'll leave the blindfold out next time." Isabela says. The corners of Hawke's lips hook upward despite how she resists. Isabela notices, follows the curves of the smile with the tip of her finger. She laughs softly. "Don't deny us, Hawke. You know you want this."

"You are very… annoying." She's extraordinarily annoying. Perhaps it is the tendency of rogues: Leliana, Athenril, Varric…Isabela. None of them lack for charm or personality, ingenuity, persistence.

"Call it what you want. I like sex. It's all the better with someone attractive and you're handy."

She thinks of the letter at Gamlen's home asking her to meet some stranger in Lowtown at nightfall. She hasn't the foggiest what it could be about but it's never a bad idea (or unprofitable one) to check out all leads. Isabela's fingers continue to tease along her face. It's distracting. Hawke summons her reserves. "I have to focus on the Deep Roads expedition."

"So what better way to relax?" Isabela smiles. Hawke is unconvinced. "We don't have to be friends. We don't have to be anything. I'll scratch your back," her smile grows wider, "you'll scratch mine. Again." She trails a finger down Hawke's arm, circling fingers around her wrist. She lifts it, presses a kiss there. Hawke's pulse races beneath her lips. "I've been  _dreaming_ of tying you up," she murmurs, casting a glance to meet her eyes.

Hawke wishes she had a blindfold. She drops her gaze and pulls her wrist away gently. "I really do have a lot to do."

"Start with me."

The smile is nearly full formed now. She lowers her lips to Isabela's ear but does not graze it. Isabela may be selfish and a liar but she can never be accused of being dull. "No."

Isabela pouts. "Brat. You're really going to make me go to the Blooming Rose?"

"I'm no charity."

She throws her hands up in the air. "Fine. But if I end up in the poorhouse, know that you're to blame."

"And not your voracious sexual appetite?" Hawke moves away from the wall and leaves the alley.

Isabela follows beside her. "Voracious, is it? And you're what? A timid chantry sister? I know better, Hawke." Hawke shakes her head. Timid chantry sister. She thinks of Leliana but dismisses her. It's been years now. "You didn't exactly show restraint." Hawke frowns. "But I liked that."

Hawke stops. Someone somewhere is coughing violently. Elsewhere there's some kind of scuffle going on. In front of her: Isabela. The breeze is pulling at the tendrils in her hair. She is so profoundly wild before her, free, brimming with a love of life and joy. Hawke cannot imagine that kind of life, that kind of freedom, that kind of happiness. Isabela does not belong in Lowtown, no matter what she says or how often she claims to love it. "Kirkwall must be dull to someone like you. It's a pity about your ship."

"Yes, it is. I loved that girl more than anything." She says sadly. "I'll get another ship and leave. That's the plan, anyway. I just have to find that—uh, relic. Castillon wants my hide but I'm rather attached to it."

"Hm." Her story still doesn't make sense.

"What? You've got that look on your face again. If you're really worried about—"

"I know where this is going. Just stop."

Isabela smirks. "You can't blame a girl for trying."

"Are you ever serious about anything?"

"You're serious enough for all of Kirkwall. Levity is a lot more fun."

"That's all you care about? Fun?"

"That and keeping ahead of Castillon, yes. What's the point in moping about? That never solves anything. Look at you and Fenris. Anyway, you're asking too many questions and all I wanted to know was if you'd spank me if I asked nicely." There's a beat. Hawke is silent. The night has gotten much hotter. "You do blush. I like it." She's close to Hawke again, a hand on her face. "I know how you hate to have fun and I can't say I don't admire a woman fixated on making coin, but you need to loosen up. Look at you, plainly trying to resist the very thing you so clearly want." She smiles. "I'll tell you what—why don't you think on it? I won't sit around waiting for you—I won't do that for anyone. But if you change your mind… I'm game."

Hawke gives a near imperceptible nod of her head. "I'll think about it."

"Not too hard. Next time I'll wear the blindfold," she says with a wink, "if you need a little incentive." She mimes the action of wrapping one around her eyes, smiles and goes.

Hawke watches her every step, her every movement, the sway of her hips, and how confidently she can walk through the city with her head held high. Jealousy ebbs at Hawke. She regrets her inability to make decisions lightly.


	4. Chapter 4

The plan is to set the mabari on Carver.

Hawke opens the door to their room carefully. She's learned what boards creak and groan. The door will make a grinding squeak, there's no getting around that, but Hawke is confident Carver will sleep past it. It's past midday already. Carver arrived home late in the night, drunk and making a great deal of noise before crashing loudly into bed.

Hawke found it difficult to get back to get back to sleep and gave up on the venture not long after. She clutches the small strip of leftover lunchmeat in her hand. The mabari sniffs and licks at her fingers, anxious to get to it. She pats his head before throwing the meat at Carver. It lands on his chest and she grins, giving the Mabari an encouraging pat on the rump.

He springs. Carver screams comically as the Mabari pounces on his chest, his heavy forearms pinning him down. "Tori!" He yells wildly, "the blighted dog has lost its mind! Hit it with something!" His arm stretches to the side trying to grab at his sword, trying to grab at a book. The Mabari thinks they're playing. "Do I smell food?"

Hawke collapses against the doorframe in laughter. Carver looks down at the dog that licks his chest eagerly, looking for an extra taste of the food. He wags his stump of a tail and climbs into the bed and into Carver's lap. "If I bribe him, he likes you! Come here, boy."

Carver pushes him away and the mabari goes to Hawke, tongue lolling out. Hawke pats his head roughly. The Mabari gets on its hind legs, paws to her chest. She coos at him. Carver scowls. "This was your doing, was it? Still a bitch," he says grumpily.

"Mother asked that I wake you up gently. I thought this would be more fun." Hawke grins. She sends the mabari on its way. "Time to rise—I won't ask you to shine. There's this big ball of light that hangs in the sky, the sun, I believe it's called. For whatever reason, it longs to shine on your face. I'm of the mind that you should get reacquainted." Carver groans and settles down on the bed, pulling the blanket over his head. Hawke rips it away from him. "Get up, little brother. I've missed your resentment so."

"I can resent you from here," his words are muffled into the pillow.

Her voice hardens, all playfulness gone. "Get up."

He grumbles and gets up.

* * *

 

"What do you suppose Aveline has against me?" Carver asks. They walk the Lowtown market trying to find some decent vegetables for the dinner stew. Their previous talk had centered on the Deep Roads expedition and what may happen if it is or isn't a success. "I was a soldier, same as her. I'm perfectly capable for being in the guard but she's still against me. Why doesn't she understand that I can't just pick up a trade? Why should I? I'm a good swordsman. One of the best. I won't lower myself."

Hawke doesn't know what Carver expects her to say. He's had the conversation often with Aveline. Just as Aveline has spoken often to her as to her reasons for telling the guard that they shouldn't take him. They both have valid points. "You know how Aveline loves discipline."

"She likes you well enough. Sure I may drink a little much and get into a fight now and then but I don't steal. Not like you, Sister. If Mother knew that you were as bad as that blasted dwarf and Isabela… well… maybe she wouldn't think you were a shining beacon of daughterhood."

"Oh, but if I weren't such a shining beacon then how would I get the blame for dear Bethany or not helping you out properly?" she smiles faintly but hates that this is stirring up again. Why is it always a fight? Why can't she just walk with her bloody brother without him being angry that he's her brother? "I'm happy to let you be the head of the family. Trust me, the hours are long and I'm paid in ungratefulness, not coin."

"What am I going to do if this expedition doesn't pan out? Play guard to you forever?"

"Only until I'm dead—then you can do whatever you’ve always wanted to with your life." Not that he’s ever had any ambition.

"There you are again with the jokes. Take something bloody seriously for once in your life, will you? I can't keep following around in your shadow. And I tire of watching over Mother. I need a life, a trade… I need to be a soldier. I don't want to live in Lowtown for the rest of my life, with you and Mother and Gamlen."

"But however could we live without your cheer? Our lives would be so grey.”

"I don't want to be poor."

"Suddenly you care? What happened to your contempt for Mother wanting to get the Amell estate?"

"She's always living in the past. If it was so bloody great, why'd she leave it? She acts like nothing of the Hawkes’ matter anymore now that Father and Bethany are gone."

"That isn't true. Anyway, can you blame her? She's stuck with an apostate and a sulking son."

"I don't sulk! And if I did, could you blame me? I tire of you, Tori." He looks at her scathingly. She shrugs. "I've been thinking of joining the templars." Hawke stops walking. He keeps going before he notices. "What? How's that a problem? You work with them all the time. Father's best friend was a templar; I was named after one. You have everything."

"What do I have?" She asks desperately. What does she bloody have? Responsibility heaped on top of responsibility, a cursed 'gift' running through her veins, dictating all of her life? Oh yes, she has the luck of Andraste.

"Expectations! People expect things of you. Mother and even Gamlen look at you and they know that you will find a way to do better. And here I am, just riding on your coattails."

"That isn't true."

"Yes, it is."

"I don't have coattails."

"Blast you! I hate how things are!"

"Then do something! Do something other than complain! Do you think I like any of this? I would love it if you picked up some of the burden! You have no idea how  _tiring_ it is to be the sole bearer of it."

"You think I don't want responsibility?"

"Go ahead and join the templars. Do whatever you like the way you always do. Mother would love it, so would Bethany and Father."

His features twist in anger. "It was only an idea!" He says defensively. "You've said it yourself, they do good work. They do what's right. There can be good in the templars." He looks at her soberly. "Would you hate me if I joined the order?"

She's quiet a long time. The ache in her voice is too evident. "Would you hate  _me_  if you did?"

Carver doesn't have a chance to respond. Varric and Isabela walk up to them. Varric looking curious and Isabela delighted. "What's this?" Isabela asks. "More sibling rivalry?" She looks between their two faces. "If you weren't brother and sister I'd suggest a fun way to work off that energy." Varric groans. Isabela looks at him. "Too much?"

"Always, Rivaini."

"We'll talk later," Hawke says to Carver. She doesn't want to deal with any of them just now. She's tired and hurt.

"The Templars?" Aveline scrunches her nose up at the mention. "He can't make it in the guard, I doubt he could make it there. They're all a bunch of bullies. Maybe that would suit him."

"Am I being selfish?" Hawke asks. She rubs at her forehead but the headache shows no indication of leaving her. She'd wandered for some time after leaving Carver, her mind full of unhappy thoughts that refused to subside. Eventually she'd gone to the barracks and to the Captain's Office. Aveline had shut the door when Hawke took a fretful seat across from her desk. "I do work with the templars. Wesley was a templar."

Aveline sits at the edge of her desk. "But you're  _you._ You were raised with a fear of templars, you and your—your sister. As well as Leandra. And in Kirkwall I can't say that I blame you. He's entitled to his life, Hawke. But I don't blame you for being upset."

"I'm not upset." She can't keep still.

"Of course not." Aveline says in her knowing, dry way. "I know why you came here. I know you're too proud to ask, just as you know that I have my reasons. The decision stands. Carver isn't fit for the city guard."

Hawke sits in silence some minutes further before nodding and exiting.

* * *

 

It's night in Hightown. Hawke sits on the steps that lead to the lower parts of the city. She's been sitting there quite a while. She was there when Isabela entered the Blooming Rose and she is there now all this time after. Isabela thinks it's funny how someone can look sad without showing their face. She wonders if she should thank the Hawke family for being her wingman or thrash them violently for clitblocking her.

Isabela saunters over, pulls on Hawke's loose ponytail and takes a seat next to her. "There you are." Not that she'd been looking for her. "Are you trying to work up the courage to go to the Blooming Rose? Don't bother. I'm better than anything they have there." Hawke looks at her. Says nothing. "Look at your frowny face. You had a fight with your brother. As I recall, you've barred all family talk from our conversations, so do you mind if I just flirt instead?"

Hawke looks away from her. Bows her head. "I'm not in the mood."

"Give me a few minutes, you will be."

"You're incorrigible."

"You wouldn't like me if I were corrigible." Isabela says happily. Hawke makes a small sound. It takes Isabela a second to realize that Hawke's smiling, however slight. "So… Varric tells me you're near ready for this expedition of yours. Who are you taking?"

"Varric and my brother. I haven't thought of it past that."

"What have you thought about? Coin?" She looks around. "Hightown is full of well-dressed liars. Is Lowtown really so bad? Why not stay there?"

"You wouldn't ask if you lived with Uncle Gamlen."

"I practically do with all the time he spends at the Blooming Rose." The small smile that had settled on Hawke's lips is gone again. Isabela slides closer to her. "The darkspawn are almost gone and it could make me a killing. Let me tag along on your trip. I don't like darkspawn but I would like to be rich and all the better if it's my coin and not someone else’s."

"You? In the Deep Roads?"

"Why not? Must be cold down there. I could keep you company."

"And so it comes back to sex."

"And coin. Don't forget that. What else could it come to? Sharing our dark secrets? Our personal hurt?" Isabela is reassured when Hawke smiles wryly again. "You really like to pout, don't you?" She brings her hand to Hawke's head, trailing her fingernails gently along the back of her neck. "I hate pouting. Unless you like it. I could do it more often. Some have called me irresistible."

"Your charms won't work on me."

"They already have." She leans in closer. "Take me on your little expedition. It will be fun." Hawke doesn't answer immediately. Isabela grins. "Hold on, you'll think about it? You think too much, Hawke. You need to  _feel_. You need to  _act._ "

"I suppose you have some ideas on what I ought to start with?"

"Was that a joke? Does Hawke make jokes? Maker's breath! What has the world come to? Unless you really are so dense and that question was earnest. Color me thrilled anyway. I'll be happy to guide you to what you can 'feel'." Hawke watches her, icy gaze touching over her face but retreating from Isabela's eyes. "What are you looking for? A reason?"

"There are no reasons."

"There don't need to be. Kiss me, Hawke. I've been good, haven't I?"

"Have you?"

Isabela smirks. Truthfully Merrill probably wouldn't like for her to run around kissing Hawke. But she barely knows Merrill. They aren't close. She owes her nothing. Anyway, she'll kiss who she likes, fuck whom she likes. Maybe she should get Merrill a boyfriend and the elf might become less interested in what or who Isabela does. Hawke is still thinking about it, her brow marked with one line. Isabela wants more than a kiss. She wants to break a bed. She tells her so.

"You'll get a kiss and nothing more."

Hawke makes it sound like a threat. Isabela is delighted. Hawke kisses her.

* * *

 

"I've told you to carry your bloody staff and lay low!" Carver shouts at her. His face, chest and arms are splattered with blood. On the sandy ground around them are the bodies of numerous templars. Hawke remains sitting, her fingers buried in the sand. Carver's body is still wet from where he was swimming in the ocean below; he'd run up from the water as fast as his legs could carry him. He's barefoot and shirtless, his pants clinging to him. Grains of sand are on his wet hair. Hawke thinks of the first time she zapped him with electricity. "Oh get up. Don't sit there looking stupid or so help me I'll start with you what I finished with them." Hawke pushes to her feet. The thick smell of iron clogs her nostrils. She's light headed. "Did they get you?" He asks gruffly. "Did you fight back?" He touches her nose delicately with his thumb, wiping at the blood running from there. He spots the dagger still in her hand. "Maker, what were you thinking?"

"I don't know," she tries to pull her face away but he holds on to it, pushing the hair back from her forehead. "I can't—"

"They got you good." His fingers brush over a knot forming at her temple.

"No, they didn't. I'm fine." She looks at Carver, noticing the gash on his chest. Blood pours freely though he doesn't seem to notice. "Sit. Sit down," she pushes his arms away and guides him to a nearby boulder. He wipes his hair back with his hand and stabs his sword into the ground next to him. "I guess the Hawkes can't even go for a swim without being ambushed."

"Not apostate Hawkes."

Hawke frowns. She sets a hand on his shoulder and another on his chest. "Just give me a minute," she says quietly. Her hand warms. She feels his heartbeat beneath her hand, steady and pounding. His lips are set thinly. She feels a mirror pain spread throughout her own chest. Healing is bothersome. "Father always wanted me to keep studying, to keep getting stronger. I don't know where to do that if it isn't out here."

"Why bother? Aren't you just a second-tier thief?"

"We survived the darkspawn attack on Lothering because of my magic."

"I had no part in it, of course."

"Don't start," she says sharply. "I'm trying to share something with you." He makes a face, his skin is slowly starting to stitch itself together. The heat spreads to her chest. "It isn't fair that you have to fight my battles for me. I know that. I hate that you're the one who killed them just now. Father always taught me to fight fair, to have an equals' match. Unless it was a blood mage," she thinks of Merrill, "or some kind of abomination," she thinks of Anders.

"Father didn't teach you very well, then. You think the templars play fair? They can shut your magic down, they drink lyrium so it doesn't affect them, so they're stronger. You idiot. You're the one at a disadvantage when you're fighting them. They come in groups, with swords."

"I can't hand mages over to the templars and kill them when it's me they come after."

"You can if you want to stay alive. And you have to stay alive, Viktoria. I don't want to lose another sister. And Mother doesn't need to lose another daughter."

"I'm so confused, Carver. Sometimes…" She bites her lip and feels her eyes sting. She takes a moment and waits for her eyes to clear. "I don't know what's right."

"You  _know_ what's right. Everyone wouldn't be so eager to kiss your ass if they didn't."

"Tell that to Anders or Merrill."

"Forget them. I get tired of hearing about their bloody plight." Carver says. Hawke's face is expressionless. "I can't pretend I know what's right, Sister. I know that everyone thinks I'm a screw up. Junior Hawke. Is this a joke, you talking to me like this?" Hawke shakes her head. "If you're harming no one, you can't let them take you without a fight. Especially if they seek to end you." He grabs her arm that's still on his chest. "Promise me, Sister." He shakes her arm when she doesn't respond. "Promise."

"You can't keep killing templars if you mean to join the order." Hawke says. Carver is quiet. "I won't allow it. Not for me, not anymore. It isn't right." She pulls her hand away from him. The cut on his chest has been mended. "Carver… you should do what's right, for you. And don't consider me."

Carver laughs darkly. "Is that how you'd have it? You have to be the selfless one?"

"You've been more selfless than you give yourself credit for." She shakes her head and ties her hair up, moving to the templars. In fact, she always complains too much about him. So what if he spends coin on whores? "We have to bury them." She wonders if it would be easier to throw them out to sea. Carver makes the suggestion before she can voice it. She looks back to him. He's found his boots and shirt.

"Do you think the templar cause is just?" Carver moves around to grab under the arms of a templar guard. "Maker, their armor is heavy." Hawke grabs the templars legs. They walk slowly to the edge of the cliff. "It isn't perfect."

"What is?"

"On three." They begin to swing the body of the templar. They release on three and the body topples below. Carver peers over the edge. "Glad he didn't get caught on the rocks."

"People would pay for our family outings." Hawke sees the body swiftly disappear beneath the ocean water. She frowns. She doesn't like this. No. She will not allow Carver to do this for her. She will fight her own battles from now on. It was unfair of her to ever allow him to do it. It was cowardly, no matter what her mother or father had engrained in her. "I'm sorry I've made you do this."

"I'm your brother. I'm supposed to watch out for you." He smiles. Hawke returns it. "Anyway… I didn't help Bethany when—I can at least help you." Both are quiet. They go and retrieve another templar body. "If I join the Order, I'll never be able to do this again." Carver says. "But I'll never turn you over. I'll never let them take you."

Carver has never spoken to her in this way. Maybe she should have been more honest with him beforehand. She sees their reflection in the templar armor, sweaty under the sun, blood covered. She thinks to make a joke but nothing clever or appropriate presents itself. "I'm glad to have you, Carver."

"Yeah, yeah."

They release on three.

* * *

 

"What do you think of Merrill?" Carver asks. It's evening around the usual time he takes off for the night. He's sitting in their bedroom pulling his boots on. Hawke is on the desk peeling an anorexic apple with a knife. "She's uh—elven and… pretty, in her own way, isn't she?"

"I don't have enough adjectives to properly tell you what I think of her." Hawke cuts a slice of apple and pops it into her mouth. She chews thoughtfully. She hopes that her brother isn't planning on becoming involved with a blood mage. He can do better.

"I like her."

"Goody." She passes him a slice of apple. He eats it and holds his hand out for another. Hawke passes it to him. "Why the sudden interest?"

"There aren't many other women that we get to spend time with. She's weird but… she likes me well enough. I suppose there's Isabela." He stands and looks through a poor wooden box that contains some of the perfumes he's collected. Hawke cuts another slice of apple. "She's not bad."

She isn't sure what he means. She continues to cut the skin of the apple like a ribbon. "I suppose not."

"Definitely not marriage material. Not anyone I could bring home to Mother. Can you believe she was married once? I think I heard someone say that." Carver picks up a bottle and pulls the cap away, holding the bottle under her nose. "What do you think?"

"Of Isabela?"

"The cologne."

She sniffs it delicately. "Not bad." Has Carver slept with Isabela? Isabela’s been married? There are too many questions. She's planned to share everything with her brother—lovers weren't a part of that plan. Neither she nor Isabela are looking for commitments so it isn't as if it matters. "You want to get married, Carver?"

"Sure, why not? I'd like to carry on the Hawke name." He laughs. "If I beat you to it the kids might even stand a chance. Wouldn't you like to be an aunt?"

"Not while we're still living here with Gamlen. But some sullen nephews or nieces might be bearable. The world needs more brooding Hawkes." She briefly imagines having Hawke children about. It would make their mother happy, to be sure.

"You said it, Sister." He slaps some cologne lightly on his face and checks his reflection in the mirror. "Anyway, wish me luck with Merrill."

"She's a blood mage." Their father wouldn't approve. Neither would their mother. Neither would Bethany. Neither does she. "I don't like it."

"And you're an apostate." Carver says. He notices her frown. "Aren't you the one to say that there's more to you than your blasted magic?"

"Yes, but—"

"But what? You're a hypocrite?"

Hawke grits her jaw. It isn't the same. She didn't choose to have magic. Merrill  _chooses_ to use blood magic. She thinks to explain it to him but he's left.

* * *

 

"I'm surprised at you, Hawke. I didn't think you were the type to make deals with dwarves in the middle of the night." Isabela walks up the stairs with Hawke, having just left their meeting with Dougal who has agreed to fund the expedition if Hawke promises to repay him threefold. She turns her eyes to Varric. "And this one doesn't count."

"You wound me!" Varric says, his face demonstrating perfect offense. "Hawke and I make our deals in the middle of the day like decent people!"

Hawke smiles. "There's nothing decent about us, Dear Varric. There's no need to lie to Isabela."

"How do you get this tone out of her?" Isabela demands to Varric. What  _is_ that tone on her tongue? She's never heard it from Hawke before. Playful and flirtatious, hinting at a promise that one is anxious to fulfill. Why doesn't Hawke use it on her?

"You'd have to be a handsome dwarf to understand," Varric says to Isabela. He looks at Hawke, trailing behind the women. "Dougal will be trouble—nothing we can't handle, but don't expect this to be the end of it."

Hawke nods in agreement. "If the expedition is a failure or we all die in the Deep Roads at least my mother will have some coin to petition the viscount with. Everything else I can figure out in time."

"Don't go talking about dying in the Deep Roads," Varric grumbles.

"But how romantic would it be for us to die in each other's arms?"

"I don't like you that much, Kid. And dying in the Deep Roads is just as an average of a death as any. If we're going to die we need to make it good." They reach the top of the stairs and he looks up at them. "Now if you'll excuse me there's some…restitution that I need to collect," he narrows his eyes eastward. "You two  _try_ to behave yourselves."

"Never, Dwarf," Isabela says. Varric shrugs and departs. She looks to Hawke who looks as if she's ready to say something before shutting her mouth. And what a pretty mouth it is. "Your expedition is tomorrow. Are you excited?"

"Not particularly but it needs to be done. I don't want to talk about it."

"You've barred so many topics of conversation I'm beginning to suspect you only want to fuck me. Are you taking me? To the expedition," she clarifies, though she is curious and anxious about the other.

"I'm not yet decided."

"Then let me make the decision for you."

They walk some time. "No."

"Why not?"

"I make my own decisions. They're mine to live with."

"I see." There Hawke is again getting serious. Isabela grabs her arm. "Slow down." Hawke does but tugs her arm away. Isabela wishes Hawke wasn't so quick to get loose of her. It's one thing when they've had their fun but it's quite another to not allow it to begin. "Carver's out on a date with Merrill right now. She's over the moon. Came to me for advice and everything. Adorable." Hawke crosses her arms. Isabela knows she's said something that Hawke doesn't like but it's hard to pinpoint given how she dislikes most of what she says. "When are you going to come to me for proper dating advice? There are a few things I could recommend fixing." Oh, Hawke doesn't like that at all. Her frown etches deeper. How does she manage to be both frigid and smoldering in one? "Do you have a problem with those two going out?"

"Do you?" Hawke asks pointedly.

"Why should I?" She pauses. "Why should you?" Hawke's walking again. "What's your problem with Merrill?" She chuckles. "Don't tell me you think your brother could do better. I pity the girl who has to spend too much time with him."

"Watch what you say about my brother."

"Or what?" She reaches out to grab her arm again. Hawke faces forward without turning to her. Isabela smiles. "You'll give me the icy shoulder? I'm beginning to suspect that your form of foreplay. You put up a lot of fight for a woman who's had her mouth over every inch of me. For hours." Hawke's arm tightens in Isabela's hold but she keeps still and silent. Isabela touches a hand to Hawke's back. "I'd tell you I don't bite but you know that's a lie. And I happen to know you like it. Did I leave many marks?" She slides her hand over to her shoulder, moving around her until she's facing her. "I'm just heartbroken that you have a staff and I can't even make the appropriate double entendres." There it is again, another irritated but amused smile on Hawke's lips.

She snakes her arms around Hawke's neck. "Take me on your expedition." She lifts on her toes, brushing her lips over Hawke's cheeks. "Or just take me. That would suit me beautifully. You could do it right here. Let's put on a show." She delves her fingers in Hawke's hair and pulls her near. Hawke is smiling now, a new one that Isabela has never seen before: condescending and arrogant, wicked. "You really love to tease me, don't you?"

"Maybe." Hawke unwraps Isabela's arms. Why must she keep doing that? Hawke slips a finger beneath her chin and leans in close. Isabela's eyes half-close. "You can come on the expedition," she says. She releases her. "Hightown tomorrow, bright and early in the morning."

"I'd rather have sex, Hawke," Isabela says as she watches her walk away. "We can start tonight and walk over together in the morning?" Hawke doesn't slow. "You really are a twat. I got a kiss last time." And what a kiss it had been. Hawke had limited herself to the one, as she'd promised, but it had been long and heated. Then she'd stood and left without another word. "No kiss tonight?" Hawke waves without looking at her. What a bitch.

Isabela's smiling. The Blooming Rose it is, then.

* * *

 

Hawke has to make a decision. She will not be stuck with Merrill for near two weeks underground and Aveline has made it clear that she would prefer to not take out that much time from the guard for Hawke's 'status and future fortune'. Anders knows the area well. On the other hand they have his maps and he is insistent on not returning to the Deep Roads. Isabela  _wants_ to go. So does Carver. The choice is simple, really, if it weren't for her mother.

"You're actually considering it," Carver accuses. Hawke shakes the thoughts away and looks at Carver's indignant face. "If you don't take me I will never forgive you, Tori. By the Maker I swear it. Don't take this from me."

Hawke looks from him to their mother. Leandra's face is a plea in itself. "I'll take good care of him,” Hawke tells her. “Just think of it as a nice break from his pouting face," she grabs him sternly by the chin but he pulls away. Her mother is dissatisfied and disappointed. "It will be fine."

Relief washes over Carver. "I can take care of myself, Mother," he smiles encouragingly before his expression darkens. "When are you going to start treating me like a man?"

Hawke bites back that it will be more inclined to happen when he starts acting like one. There's no reason to foster any bad blood between them, especially now. The comment is mean spirited. He has helped her and she knows how difficult it is for him to ask for things. If this means something to Carver she'll have him along. She can't imagine how stifled he must feel under their mother's constant fears.

Leandra is embarrassed and stung by his tone. "I'm sorry—it's just, you'll always be my little boy, Carver. I can't help that. I worry. Especially after what happened to—"

"Don't," he says firmly. "I can fight. I'm strong. We'll be back before you know it. I am sorry to be leaving you with Gamlen."

Hawke grins. "Now you know how I feel. Just know, Mother, that I will suffer alongside of you."

"You're so clever," Carver says petulantly and gets only a smile in return from Hawke.

Hawke looks at Leandra and sees the anger in her eyes. Leandra shakes her head. "I’ll take care of him," Hawke tells her again but she's already walking away.

Carver's eyes are bright and alert. His cheeks are rosy; he can't contain his smile. Hawke thinks that her younger brother very much looks like a younger brother today. He's so young. He thanks her. She says "you're welcome".

Isabela walks beside her as they leave Kirkwall, following the caravan. "'Tori'?" She snickers.

"Shut up."

The sky is a beautiful blue and the weather, pleasant and lovely.

* * *

 

The Deep Roads are cold and dark. They smell of earth and decay. There are a lot of darkspawn. Isabela would hate to see how it looked before the defeat of the blight. Two days in, Carver has already grown tired of fighting them. Four days in and he begins to complain. "Where's all the treasure that's meant to be down here? There's dirt and rocks on top of dirt and rocks."

"Dirt and rocks tend to be on top of dirt and rocks, Junior,” Varric says. “We're not to the Thaig yet." He looks at Hawke. "You couldn't have brought Daisy or Blondie?" He looks Carver over, narrowing his eyes. "He's not Aveline."

"Carver preens himself more," Isabela says with a smirk. "But isn't he delicious when he pouts?"

"What?" Carver looks at her and blushes.

"This is boring, Hawke." Isabela plants her hands on her hips and looks around the cavernous underground. Hawke and Varric carry torches. Outside of that there is only endless black. The caravan is some distance behind them as they forge the way. "Where's all the adventure you promised?"

"I never promised any such thing."

Isabela paces. The air is stifling down here. It's too cage-y. She doesn't like how long it will take to get out. And she can't very well leave by herself. "On second thought, it was an immensely stupid idea to come here. What was I thinking?" Isabela asks aloud.

"Coin?" Carver asks.

Varric coughs 'sex' into his arm. Hawke looks at him severely. Isabela looks fondly at Varric. She really does love that dwarf. Anyone who can irritate Hawke as well as he can holds a special place in her heart. "Anyway, we've been traveling for more hours than I'm usually awake. Is it time to set up camp yet or would you prefer to walk until our blisters have blisters?"

"I know what Hawke would prefer," Varric says, "but let's set up camp. Tomorrow is going to be a long day. We need all the rest we can get. That includes you, Hawke."

"A long day?" Carver asks. "Haven't they been long enough already?" He slings the camp materials from his back. "But you don't have to tell me twice. Camp it is." He takes the torch from Hawke and sets it on the ground beside him as he begins to take out the tent components.

"I love a man who can take charge," Isabela settles beside him, "here, hand me the," she gestures and Carver passes it along to her. Making a tent is easy enough work and the torch provides plenty of light. Isabela is disappointed that so far she's only shared a tent with Varric who adamantly refuses her advances. Hawke has barely looked at her. She just can't win. "I'm switching tents tonight, Varric. I think I'll have a go at it with Carver Hawke."

Varric shrugs. Hawke ignores her altogether, looking into the darkness ahead as if seeking something.

* * *

 

It is a lucid dream where the only sense that is alive and well is that of feeling. Pleasure. Hawke releases a small breath, a soft sigh that is soon smothered with a kiss. She opens her eyes. There is only black. She can't recall when she went to her tent to sleep. Not long ago. Varric had relieved her of guard duty. Is he—?

_Shh._ Whispered into her ear. Hot kisses on her neck. The sharp trailing like a nail. A stud. Isabela. "What—" Hawke starts groggily. Another kiss mutes her.

Listens. There is only the rustling of clothes being shifted, her incapacitated breathing.

Isabela's touches are waking her slowly but surely. Her warmth and weight are better than any fire or drink. Hawke only half knows that this isn't what she should be doing, that she shouldn't be allowing this in the company of others. In a tent. In the Deep Roads. She says Isabela's name, a warning. Isabela says Hawke's, mocking, longingly.

When Isabela kisses her again Hawke is too tired, too unwilling, to resist.

* * *

 

"So you're screwing Isabela now?" Carver asks. Isabela perks at the conversation, slapping Varric's arm so he can listen too. Varric smiles, shakes his head, but stealthily walks closer with Isabela to better hear. "I saw her coming out of your tent this morning."

"Oh, was that Isabela?" Hawke asks. "So much for my bragging rights of at long last seducing Varric. I thought that was a little long to be chest hair. Or maybe it was."

"Hey!" Varric and Isabela call out at the same time.

"Will you two mind your own business?" Hawke looks back at them irritably.

Carver focuses on his sister. "After you complained about Merrill you're doing… her? If that isn't the pot calling the kettle black."

"I don't think you know what that expression means." Hawke chirps. She looks at Carver. They've just defeated the Ancient Rock wraith and collected mounds of treasure. They are  _rich._ She had expected more excitement from Carver. Instead his voice has been fairly weak. He looks pale and sweaty. Maybe it's only the darkness. The expedition has been long and the fighting continuous. Bartrand's betrayal stunning. But it's all over now. She passes him a skin of water. "You don't look well. Drink up." He takes the water and drinks sloppily. "We're almost back at camp."

"And then another five days to get to the surface," he complains. "I'm tired of dirt and the dark."

"It'll be over before you know it."

"I thought you were a virgin," Carver says, sounding dazed. He fumbles the water back to her.

"I am. I'm saving myself for Varric. I will not be made to suffer a chaste marriage," she wags a finger at the dwarf.

"You never give up," Varric chuckles.

"There's nothing chaste about you, Hawke," Isabela walks up between the siblings, lacing her arms through theirs. Hawke pulls away. Carver seems to lean on her. "Maybe I should have both Hawke siblings at once. That might be fun."

Hawke narrows her eyebrows. Carver mirrors the expression. "I feel like I don't even know you," Carver says to Hawke, looking past Isabela to look at her.

"Don't be stupid," Hawke says. What the void does it matter if she's had sex or not? Of course he knows her.

Carver continues. "I always thought you were lonely or… alone or…"

"And you think sex cures that?" Isabela asks. "You've got a lot to learn. I'm not here to soothe hearts or cure loneliness."

Hawke says nothing.

* * *

Carver's legs buckle under him. He slams to the ground. Hawke is at his side the next instant. The blight. The bloody taint. Isabela's seen it before. Poor sod. He’s white, black lines mark his face as if he were dying from the inside, which he technically is. He's trying to die. Hawke won't surrender him.

"No, no, no, not you too, Carver." Hawke speaks too quickly; her voice is lower than usual. Carver groans and tries to crawl to a sitting position. Hawke helps him. "You are not going to die. I will not let you die."

"It's the blight, Sister. It's the taint, like Aveline's husband—"'

She shakes her head at him, refusing him. "We'll find the Wardens." She tells him. "Remember that witch? That witch we met, that Flemeth," she speaks hurriedly, her voice verging on frantic. She looks at Varric. "The Wardens can help him! We'll get you to the Wardens, Carver. You'll be fine."

"We're five days underground and Blondie isn't here." Varric says. His voice echoes sadly. "We wouldn't know where to start. We couldn't make it on time if we did. I'm sorry, Hawke—"

"No!" Hawke shouts. No. No. No. No. "If you don't want to bloody help me I'll do it myself. I'm always the one that has to do everything anyway." She struggles to help Carver to his feet and fails. She turns her angry eyes to Isabela. "Don't just stand there! Help me!"

So. This is how Hawke wears desperation. Isabela knows when someone's going to die. Hawke doesn't or is in denial. Isabela stoops beside him. She wraps one of his arms around her shoulder. They lift on three. "Come on, Pup," Isabela says with a smile to Carver. "I still owe you a few dances." Carver manages a weak smile.

They soldier on for a mile until he collapses.

"Get up!" Hawke yells. Carver looks at her pitifully. Her tone softens. “It’s not far. You have to get up.” She tries to lift him. She looks furiously at Isabela who lets him go. She shakes her head at Hawke and moves away from them. "We don't need her," Hawke tells Carver, "come on, you're strong. Get up. Please. Please get up."

"I can't." Carver breathes shallowly. "I can't, Sister. I'm sorry. This is it. I'm done for."

"No," she says hoarsely. She keeps her arms around him, she tries to keep him up and can't. She cradles his head in her lap.

Isabela looks at Varric. His features are twisted up in anguish. He holds the torch out to light them. Isabela wants him to snuff it out but is aware of how selfish the request is.

Carver brings his hand to Hawke's leg, finding the dagger she keeps on a belt. He draws it out and holds it out to her. "I gave you that scar with this dagger." He smiles weakly. Hawke pretends she hasn't seen it. "It's fitting that you should end me with it."

Hawke laughs through her tears. "It isn't fitting at all, you fool."

"Take it. Take it, Sister." Carver pushes the dagger at her. She takes it. "I'll say hello to Father and Bethany for you." He touches her face, his hands wet with her tears. "Don't cry, Tori. This isn't your fault."

Hawke shakes her head. It is her fault. She grips the hilt of the dagger. She brings the tip to his chest, over his heart. His hand covers her trembling hand. She tries to smile but can't. Everything shakes. "You're so brave." The words come out a whisper. "I love you, Carver."

"Love you too, Sister. Take care of Mother. Sorry for all the trouble she'll give you. I guess sometimes it's better to ignore your little brother after all." He looks at her but she's still. "Come on, I can make jokes too, can't I? I really need you to smile."

"No. Never."

He smiles grimly. "On three, Tori." She shakes her head. "One." She grips the blade tighter to offer resistance. "Two." His fingers tighten around hers. "Three." She breathes the word 'no'. He pulls her hand down. The blade sinks into his heart. He shakes. His eyes close. He goes still. His hand falls away from hers. Only she holds the dagger now.

Hawke releases a shuddery breath. She kisses his forehead. It's cold. She can't pull away from him. She sobs silently.

Isabela and Varric look away.

* * *

 

There's a pick to the side. A relic left by the dwarves of long ago. Its survival is a credit to the outstanding craftsmanship that made it. Hawke picks it up and begins to dig.

"Wouldn't it be easier for her to just blast something?" Isabela mutters to Varric. He shakes his head. He holds up the torch. Isabela sits against a wall.

Hawke digs for hours until she's covered in dirt, the blue of her eyes the only light to her. Finally she's dug a deep enough hole.

She looks down at the crude rectangular shape. Eventually she stoops, circling her arms beneath Carver's shoulders and pulling.

Carver's boots drag across the ground, leaving trails. She drags him to the edge and stares down at him. The torch that flickered violently throughout is steady now, as if taking a moment of silence for the young life that has passed. Hawke kneels beside Carver and touches his face. Whispers some words and takes a breath.

One. Two. Three.

She pushes.

He falls into the grave with a thud. She stares down at his body for several minutes and then pushes the dirt on top of him. She returns to her tent and doesn't exit until the following morning.

She walks all day and doesn't speak a word. She walks ahead of them and doesn't show her face.

* * *

 

Isabela goes hurtling out the tent opening. It happens before she knows it. One moment she was looking at Hawke's back, reaching out to her, the next she's face down on the ground several feet away, dirt in her mouth. Pain flares all over her. She coughs and tries to get her head to stop spinning.

Varric shouts. He runs to Isabela and then to Hawke's tent. A fire burns slowly in front of the two tents. He talks frantically. Isabela doesn't ever remember him sounding that way. She'll have to tease him about it later.

Everything is black. Blasted Deep Roads.

Hawke exits from the very space she sent Isabela flying through. She has no expression. She dispassionately yanks Isabela to a sitting position and presses her hands tightly to her face. She says nothing. Her eyes are empty. Emptier, somehow, than with the ribbon in front of them. But she heals Isabela and returns to the tent.

"It was stupid coming here," Isabela says. It's the middle of the night and she can't sleep. She's in the small tent with Varric. It wouldn't be right sharing with Hawke. Clearly she doesn't want her near—despite the absence of bruises to prove it. Varric moves next to her but Isabela remains on her side. "Who cares about being rich anyway? The fun of it is the stealing. Plundering from no one at all doesn't have the same appeal." But she'd insisted on coming. Stupid.

"That's why you regret coming here, Rivaini?" His voice is disembodied but comforting in the darkness. "You could give out your wealth to the poor wretches of Kirkwall and get all those poor Fereldan refugees out of Darktown. They'll raise a flag to their savior: Isabela. You'll become chantry legend."

Isabela emits a small smile. "That's the most ridiculous story you've told yet."

"Can't argue that."

"Don't you know how selfish I am?" They're quiet. Then: "Is she going to be okay?"

"Sure."

A beat. "Really?"

"I don't know." He pulls the blanket closer and turns on his back. His voice sounds closer. "I gotta admit, the two of you scared the shit out of me yesterday. You sure she patched you up okay?"

"I've taken harder knocks." Isabela thinks of Hawke's shadowed eyes. "She only looked at me. Didn't point at me or anything."

"She scare you?"

"Me, scared? Of Hawke?" Yes. A little.

* * *

 

Hawke speaks for the first time in days when they exit the Deep Roads. The fresh, moving air and lush green mountains are a welcome sight from the black hole where they spent the last two weeks. Hawke covers her eyes from the light of the sun. She looks at it as if she'd forgotten it existed. Then she looks at Varric. "I don't know how I'm going to tell Mother."

His face knits in concern. "I wish I had some answers for you, Hawke."

Isabela stands awkwardly. Hawke hasn't looked at her since… well. Since the last time she'd looked at her. They don't look at each other now. "You should bathe before you see her." Isabela says. "You'll give her a fright if you walk in like that." Hawke is matted in dirt. Isabela offers her place. Hawke gives a minute nod and then she's quiet again on the walk back to Kirkwall.

* * *

 

Hawke's hair is soaking wet when she comes out of the bath. Her clothes are still tattered and splattered with darkspawn guts and dirt but she's clean. Isabela leans by the room door with her arms crossed. She doesn't know what to say to her. She's grateful that Hawke doesn't look at her waiting for something. She's grateful that Hawke has no expectations.

"Thanks." Hawke says quietly.

"I'm only glad someone got to use the tub." Isabela says. "It hasn't had as many visitors as I expected." She mumbles the last and stares out the window. It's a beautiful day out; as usual the world has a perverse sense of humor. "I'll even clean up your mess, no charge."

Hawke nods. She goes to the door and pulls it open. She pauses there. "Sorry about…"

Isabela waits. Hawke doesn't continue. Isabela's worried she'll start crying. "Don't worry about it," she says. She wants her to go.

Hawke goes. Isabela's relieved. She needs a drink and a lover. She can get both at the Blooming Rose and now she has enough coin to tide her over for a long time. That's good. "Really good," she says aloud to herself. Maybe she should have said something. But what can she say? Sorry your brother's dead—but don't talk to me about it? Balls. She should have never gone on the blighted expedition.

* * *

 

"You were supposed to take care of him!" Leandra screams. Hawke stands still as Leandra shoves her backward. She keeps her hands helplessly at her side. "I told you to leave him here, I begged you to leave him here and you wouldn't listen, you took him with you and now he's dead! Gone, just like my Bethany! My boy. My little boy! My only son!"

Hawke flinches but keeps her face stony. No use crying about it. She's cried for the past few days. It's her mother's turn now. When are you going to start treating me like a man, Carver had asked. You'll always be my little boy, their mother had said. I'll take good care of him, Hawke had promised.

"Why didn't you take care of him?" Leandra wails. She's never seen her mother so devastated. Leandra shakes her violently. She's demanding answers that Hawke cannot provide.

"I'm sorry." Hawke whispers. Leandra slaps her. Hawke keeps her head bowed. She can't be angry or resentful when there are tears running down her mother's face, when her eyes are so red. The brother she promised to protect is dead. A slap is getting off lightly. She feels her mother's handprint forming on her face. "We can get the Amell estate back now." Leandra slaps her again. Hawke takes an unsteady breath.

"Get out." Leandra says turning her back to her. "I don't want to see you. I don't want to see you right now. You’ve ruined this family."

Hawke exits. She doesn't notice Gamlen's sympathetic look. She doesn't know where to go. She hasn't slept in days. She's drained of emotion. She's disoriented. She doesn't know what to do.

A templar passes by her. All that talk of Carver joining the templars for nothing. Maybe he would have joined if she’d left him home.

She should have left him home.

* * *

 

A/N: Aww, Carver. More little edits. Thanks for the kudos and comments, everyone!


	5. Chapter 5

It's been raining for weeks. Hawke doesn’t know whether that would please Carver or piss him off.

The skies remain ash grey. She loses track of time and finds herself wandering the city, cast about aimlessly like the soot in the sky. Most of the time she’s numb, but when she isn’t, she can’t breathe. She loses herself in memories of her father, of Bethany and now Carver. Part of her resents her mother. If she hadn’t been so bloody intent on coming to Kirkwall for the damned estate and the coin, perhaps she’d still have her siblings. She wants to be angry with anyone but herself.

She sleeps in the warehouse, on the outskirts of the city beneath the stars. She considers turning herself in to the templars as atonement. Her mind flickers with memories of the Deep Roads. Carver’s face is vividly clear, that pressure to breach his heart with the knife. She wants to forget but she can’t. There’s something with Isabela. She doesn’t really remember that. Maybe it isn’t worth remembering.

One night she turns up at Athenril’s home. She sits by the fireplace to warm and shake the cold of the rain. “I heard about your brother,” Athenril says. Hawke wants to say that his name was Carver. That’s something Carver would say. But no words come out. Athenril touches her hair, leaving a plate of food at her side before returning to her books. Athenril’s always been all business but good when it counts.

The shelter, the food, make Hawke feel guilty and she leaves after a stilted goodbye. She isn’t hungry. She hasn’t felt hunger. She hasn’t felt anything. Varric feels guilty. Everyone else feels sorry for her. She just wants to be alone.

Another night passes, followed by another day of restless wandering. She sits beneath the vhendadahl in the alienage, a hood hiding her face. She knows how elves distrust humans, alienage or not. She doesn’t want to be chased away. She doesn’t have the energy for it but knows she can’t continue to sleep. Sometimes when she wakes she forgets everything hasn’t changed and then the hurt begins all over again.

She listens to the tapping rain on the hood of her cloak. It’s soaked through but the tree branches provide some refuge. Fat raindrops fall around her, making the ground muddy.

The elves are in their homes. It’s been weeks since she returned to her Lowtown home. One day she’ll go back to Gamlen’s but not yet. She can’t bear to see Carver’s things, her mother’s face. She can’t bear the thought of putting together another chest with the few items that remain of a sibling gone too soon.

She knows Varric delivered the coin to her uncle's home. She suspects her mother has petitioned the viscount for the Amell estate but isn’t sure. The coin makes her miserable. It wasn’t worth it. The anger and sadness come in waves. Today she’s calmer but can’t find any steadiness in the world, outside of a hollowed stillness inside her. She spends considerable time breathing in and out, counting the seconds. Every now and then it feels as if she’s forgotten how.

The stars are out. She wonders if the dead at the Maker's side gaze upon the same sky. Or is it nothingness? Is it only dirt and black they see? At least she was able to bury Carver.

The rain patters. Hawke exhales, her breath fogging in the air. A basket is set beside her. She lashes a hand out, snaking it around the retreating arm that has left it. Merrill is yanked close. She tries to pull her arm away but Hawke doesn't let her. This anger she feels. She doesn’t know what to do with it.

"Are you planning to drown or starve?" Merrill asks. She wears no cloak. Water runs from her face, matting her hair down. She shivers. "You look awful." Hawke releases her.

"I don't want your things." She turns her head from the basket. "I don't need anything from you."

"Do you think your mother would like it if you died too?” Hawke isn’t sure. Maybe. “Would Aveline or Varric?" She laughs contemptuously. "I don't do this for you, Hawke."

Hawke stands and leaves.

* * *

Hawke's eyes open. It's dark and it’s cold. She doesn't know where she is. The Deep Roads? Her cloak is gone. She sits up. A bed. A large bed with a tangle of sheets. She doesn't immediately recognize the space. She swings her legs to the side of the bed and stands barefoot on stone ground. Where have her boots gone?

Recognition dawns upon her. This is Fenris' mansion.

She looks around. A thin white curtain blows in the wind on an open window. She spots her muddy boots off to the side. She ignores them and exits the room. It would be easy to get lost. It's been months since she's been here. She thinks of the shades and hopes they will remain at bay.

She leaves the room and sees the fireplace that burns in the next room over. Fenris is sitting in his usual spot, a bottle of wine in front of him. Hawke touches her hand to the door. "What's happened?" she asks. "Why am I here?" Her voice is tired and weak.

"Ah, you wake. It's been two days." He stands, looks at the bottle of wine and back to Hawke. "You passed out in a ditch near the Blooming Rose." He chuckles. "A templar was taking great interest when I found you."

The Blooming Rose? She doesn't remember. "You didn't let him take me?" She sounds accusatory. Hawke knows how Fenris hates mages, no matter how he may tolerate her.

"You're here. Draw your conclusions." Hawke moves to the fireplace. She doesn't know how elves travel barefoot. Her feet are cold. Scattered paper and stone scratch her feet. "I am sorry for your loss. You must grieve and move forward. That's the only course left to you. I don't know anyone who would follow you now."

"I don't need followers." She's done what she came to Kirkwall to do.

"What do you need?"

"Nothing." She's lightheaded. She loses her footing and grabs on to the edge of the fireplace to steady herself. A wave of dizziness assails her. Fenris is at her side, his usual expression giving way to irritable worry. "I'm fine."

"A feral rat could take you out right now." He looks at the floor. "Fortunately I haven't seen any in some time." He goes to the table and gives her a roll of bread. Hawke ignores it but he forces it into her hand. "Eat. Pull yourself together. You're better than this." Hawke holds the bread. She tries to halve it but it's too hard. Fenris takes it from her, breaks it in half and returns it to her. "Why have you hidden from everyone? Varric and Aveline have worried."

Varric and Aveline have worried. She thinks of Isabela. It doesn’t matter. "I needed to get away for a while."

He gives an uncharacteristic wry smile. "You can't hide forever. Trust me."

Hawke takes a bite of the bread. It's too chewy but delicious on her tongue. The hunger she didn't know she had soars, making her stomach clench painfully. She takes a few more eager bites, still holding on to the fireplace for balance. She thanks him quietly when she's finished. "Can we keep this between us?"

He nods sternly.

* * *

Hawke walks into the Hanged Man.

She's too thin. Her cheeks are gaunt. Her eyes are shadowed. She still wears her simple garb. Isabela watches her. She hasn't seen Hawke since the expedition. Weeks? Months? Eh. Doesn’t matter. Why bother? No use in a pretty face if it's sulking and without humor. Anyway, she isn't exactly a terrible person. No one else has seen her either except for Merrill who told Isabela how Hawke had responded to her gift of food.

So what if the others had actively looked for her? What were they going to say? You can't comfort someone like that. Not without sex, anyway and Hawke wasn't going to be in the mood. And if she had been, what then? It'd give her the wrong idea.

Instead Isabela’s invested a good sum of coin at the Blooming Rose. The expedition was good for one thing if no other. She still wishes she hadn't gone but what's the point in thinking of it now? She can't change it.

She has a drink of beer. Hawke moves closer. Isabela can't catch her eyes. Hawke looks past her, walks past her. "Hawke."

"Isabela." Hawke doesn't look at her. She keeps moving up the stairs to Varric. Isabela finishes her beer and orders another.

* * *

Leandra throws her arms around her when she enters Gamlen's home for the first time in over a month. She apologizes and crushes Hawke to her. She tells her she hadn't meant those things, she's sorry for having said them, twice.

The Viscount still hasn't seen her.

Hawke goes to the Keep. She waits for hours, leaning against a pillar, listening to the endless chatter of the nobles who look at her as if she doesn't belong. She doesn't get to see the Viscount. For a week she waits from the moment the Keep opens until it closes. For a week she hears that Marlowe is too busy. Finally she tires of waiting. She climbs the red, carpeted stairs and grabs hold of Seneschal Bran by the scruff of his shirt. She doesn't give a fig what Aveline will say when she inevitably hears about it. "I want to buy my family's estate.” She has to do something with the coin. If she doesn’t it’ll all have been for nothing. “I've got the coin to do it so let me sign whatever it is that I need to sign or I’ll be having this chat with the Viscount instead."

Bran struggles, trying to loosen her grip. "Who do you think you are?"

"I'm the woman who rescued Saemus from his qunari friends at the behest of the Viscount. If he can't keep control of his own son, how well can he rule Kirkwall? These things don't have to stay quiet." She shoves him back. "Don't waste my time." She tires of Bran's presumptuous attitude.

He straightens his clothing indignantly and minutes later comes back agitated and with the proper documents. He berates her the entire time but she ignores him. Minutes later she's signed the deed and the estate is hers.

She goes to the Hanged Man to celebrate the news with Varric over a pitcher. He chuckles and toasts to her. "You've finally done it, Hawke. Your mother's childhood home is hers again and you don't have to work another day in your life. You’ll be a damned proper noble."

"I won't sit around doing nothing." That would make her restless. In a home on the hill she can practice magic but for what purpose? This is it, then. She can settle down and start leading a life that doesn't involve running. If she can keep her head down and avoid the attention of the templars, anyway. Whatever conflicting doubts she might have, she can’t let them take her. Carver and her mother sacrificed for her. She forces cheer into her voice. "So what do you say, Varric? Care to marry a newly minted noble?"

Varric laughs. "Shit, Hawke. It's good to hear you talking that way again. I'll deny it if you tell anyone, but you had me worried for a while there. I'm just glad you're back here and eating." Hawke smiles faintly. She spent more time than she'd expected to with Fenris. He had no expectations of her and is a recluse in his own right. It was easy to eat with him, to talk or not talk, to sit and rest and be at peace. "Have you talked to Rivaini?"

Her mood sours. "Why are you asking me that?"

"I'm just asking." He drinks slowly. "You two were still dancing the last time I checked."

Hawke remains expressionless. She thinks of their last 'dance', in the darkness, in the Deep Roads without words exchanged, with only a whispering of names. With only sensation to guide them. Yes. She recalls well how she had been fucking instead of keeping vigilant, instead of paying attention to what was happening to her brother or talking to him while she still had the chance. She should have saved him. "That's over."

"Why?"

She doesn't have a good explanation. It was never meant to be anything. The Deep Roads expedition ensured nothing more would continue. "It was never anything to begin with." Why does it matter? She nearly asks if Isabela has said something. She says: "Now that she's out of the way we can resume our passionate love affair." She covers his hand with hers. He pulls it away with a grin. Fenris settles into the seat beside her. Hawke cocks a smile at him. "If I can't have the handsome dwarf I may just have to settle for the handsome elf." The words are out of her mouth before she can stop herself. She's never flirted with Fenris.

They both clear their throats. Hawke refills her beer glass and Varric's, who looks at her questioningly but not with an absence of amusement.

"Looks like I came at the right time," Fenris says with a small chuckle.

Isabela descends the stairs of the Hanged Man with a strange man. Hawke and she meet eyes briefly before looking away. Hawke gets Fenris a glass from the bar. She returns to hear Varric inform Fenris about the Amell estate.

"So I'll no longer have a human to point to when Aveline accuses me of squatting?" Fenris asks, shaking his head in disappointment. He's pulling out a deck of card and shuffling them. "Pity. You were a fine drinking companion and a welcome distraction for the guards."

"Because I'm an apostate?" she asks pouring his beer.

Fenris looks at her, a smile tugging his lips upward. "Yes. Let's go with that."

Hawke focuses on her cards. Varric looks between the two of them. They're sitting closer together than they usually do. Neither notices.

* * *

Isabela’s heard through the grapevine that Hawke recovered the Amell estate. A pointless victory, in Isabela's eyes, but if Hawke wants to move 'up' that's her prerogative. Isabela wanders through the estate. It's large, dusty and cold. The light is a pale dingy color. She can't imagine how difficult it must be to heat a home this size in the winter—and winter's coming. The first snowflakes fell on her on the walk up to Hightown. Her body temperature is naturally warmer than most others. No need to layer up.

Isabela explores for several minutes before finding Hawke. She's in a side room sweeping the floor. Isabela smiles. "Who knew you could be so domestic when you aren't out killing things?" She looks at the collection of dirt in a corner. "There's an old man in Kirkwall with a purse full of coin dreaming of marrying a pretty, young thing like you."

Hawke glances at her and then resumes sweeping. Isabela walks around slowly, committing the layout to mind, touching items as if to memorize by feel.

"Why are you cleaning anyway?" Isabela asks. "Shouldn't your mother be doing that or—or shouldn't you be paying someone to do this? You've got the coin. Are you stingy? You're going to have to change that attitude if you want to be properly rich. I've never met a noble who wouldn't hire someone to wipe their ass if they could."

"I won't pay for what I'm perfectly capable of doing." Ah, Hawke: as efficient and boringly to the point as ever. She looks at the dust collection, her eyes carefully on the floor. "It's a surprise for Mother. She doesn't know the estate has been purchased. I'd like for her to be able to move in without fretting."

"How sweet." The words drip with sarcasm but Isabela means them. Now that she's here, she doesn't know why she came. This is the most conversation they've had in months and the conversation is fluff, nothing. She thinks of the many months earlier when she'd followed Hawke to the Amell estate tunnels and what inevitably followed when Hawke came to Isabela's room that night. It's strange to think that all began in the tunnels of this home. "Do I get a tour?"

"Look around if you want."

Hawke still hasn't looked at her. Isabela wonders if it would be best to address what happened in the Deep Roads. The thought is immediately dismissed. No. Why bother? "I want the walking tour with the family history."

"I don't have time."

She still doesn't look at her. Hawke's only being difficult. Isabela walks over. She puts a hand over Hawke's. "When you're finished sweeping are you going to ride this back to Lowtown?" She teases. Hawke pulls her hand and the broom away. This is tiresome. "You have all the time in the world now that you're a rich noble. Are our little adventures finished?" She isn't sure which adventures she means.

"What I did, I did to provide for my family. There's no point anymore."

"But what about Castillon?" Isabela bites her tongue. She's asked the question with too much urgency. Yes. Castillon. Who, the last time she checked, still wanted her dead. She went to Hawke because Hawke is an apostate who can fight. When she feels like it. Isabela looks at her and remembers how violently she was flung out of her tent in the Deep Roads. Someone who can near kill her with a look is exciting—and someone she'd like to have on her side.

"What about him?"

Isabela sighs. "Can I count on you?" she asks, she follows quickly, "if he's after me?"

"Is that something you need me for?"

" _Yes,_ Hawke."

"Then you can count on me."

Isabela releases a relieved breath. "Good." She frowns. She turns around and stares at the empty fireplace. The mansion is chilly. "I appreciate it." She says the second under her breath. Hawke resumes sweeping. Isabela listens to the scraping of the broom on the floor. Snowflakes drift past the dirty window. Normally she'd suggest sex to warm up. Hawke still hasn't looked her in the eye. Still, at least Hawke looks healthier now. She's gained some of the weight she lost back. Her eyes are no longer glassy and dark. "I'm glad that's cleared up." She crosses her arms. "With all that coin you have, you should look into some new clothes. A nice dress or two. I'm tired of seeing you in the same old thing,” she jokes.

"You don't have to see me at all."

Isabela looks at her, smiling devilishly. "Me-ow. I'd wondered where all that unchecked aggression had gone. Want to break up the cleaning?"

"You want to help?"

"That isn't what I had in mind." She's ready to clarify her position when Fenris walks in with two bottles of wine. Isabela didn't know that he got lost like Merrill. She's ready to make the joke or at least take one of the bottles when Hawke brushes past her to go to him.

The broom has been set aside. She's smiling. She sets a hand on his shoulder and takes one of the bottles from him. "You've brought wine." Hawke looks at it. "Good. There's nothing like the tears of slaves to send an apostate like myself into heady delirium."

"I'll…pretend you haven't said that,” he says crossly. "Your jokes are inappropriate, Hawke."

"But what's the fun in appropriate?" Isabela asks. Fenris looks surprised to see her. It's strange. People tend to have difficulty taking their eyes off of her. It's how she likes it. It looks like she has some competition in Hawke. She's not a bad rival to have.

"Appropriate or no…" Fenris looks at Hawke, "I'd wager it's the air and not the wine that's sending you into deliriums."

"Sure, blame my air and not yours." Hawke says, ignoring Isabela entirely. "You could stand to do some cleaning of your own, Fenris. It took me hours to scrub my feet clean the other day. Hours. How do you do it?"

He laughs, then glances at Hawke who drops the arm from his shoulder and to Isabela. "Sorry. Was I… interrupting?"

"No." Hawke says dismissively. "Isabela was finished."

"Right you are." Isabela looks at them and how closely they stand together. She smiles at them. Hawke is right, technically. She came to check on the Castillon situation and she got her answer. Everything else was optional. "Have fun 'cleaning', you two," she says with a wink. She exits the room. A glance back reveals their heads close, still preoccupied with the wine.

* * *

Fenris recoils at her touch. His features twist in conflicting uncertainty. Hawke looks out the window. It's raining. The weather has warmed recently. She wonders if the winter will bring heavy, wet flakes of snow or if it will rain the entire time.

Fenris stands from the bench beside her. She'd taken his hand. It doesn't happen often but sometimes a feeling seizes her, a crushing oppressiveness that is difficult to withstand. She thinks of her first night with Isabela, how she had felt much the same then. Isabela made it go away.

"Sorry," she says to Fenris. She keeps her hands firmly in her lap.

"No, I…" He stops in front of her, head bowed, eyes fixated on the fireplace. "I'm unused to…contact. It embarrasses me to admit that even the slightest touch on these…burns like…" he looks at his arms hatefully, his tone vengeful. "Blasted lyrium markings. Damnable Danarius. He would take even these moments…"

"I suppose it doesn't help matters that I'm a mage." Hawke stands. She enjoys Fenris' company. There's no reason to push for more. They share the same values. They're friends. It's easy with him. So often with the others it feels like a pissing match. She’s happy he wasn't at the Deep Roads. She's grateful that he doesn't know the extent of her anguish. To him, she's just another mage. A dangerous element, to be sure, but he has praised her restraint in the past. Maybe that's what she needs: for someone to acknowledge that she is a monster but one that keeps it in check. Does someone need to praise her? Would that make her happy? How pathetic. How self-centered. She's bothered. "I'll go."

"Hawke… You aren't Danarius."

"Not the last time I checked," she says with a dry smile. "But we mages are tricky devils. It's all right." She says to him. She doesn't want an apology. She looks at him sometimes and sees herself: isolated and proud, angry at the lot she was handed. "We'll forget this happened. And if we don't there's wine to help dull our memories. Wine can solve just about anything."

He takes her hand. Hawke looks down at his tan fingers, nicked with scars. His markings pulse. She wonders if that's a bit of magic that runs through him. She'd hate for her magic to be so obvious. She'll never tell him the markings are attractive. She'll never tell him he's lucky to have that power. What's the point of power? Is there some greater cause that can be served by it? People usually use it to achieve their own selfish means. Just like she did. She doesn't need it anymore. "Your hand is cold," she says quietly to him.

His mouth is not.

* * *

Aveline never takes a moment to breathe. She is consumed by her life as captain of the guard. Hawke only sees Aveline when she accompanies her on her patrols. Aveline no longer has a reason to follow Hawke but she doesn't mind having an extra 'guard' with her. Especially in Darktown.

Aveline tells her about politics in Kirkwall and the guard. There's nothing exciting, really. There are some who are worried about the qunari and the Arishok. There are others worried more about the templars and the authority of Knight-Commander Meredith. "But you know how these things are, Hawke, people like to flap their gums about something even when it's nothing."

"Speaking of which…" Hawke tells Aveline of the letter she received from Anders. It was uncharacteristically brief, asking her to meet him at his clinic. "You'll come with me, won't you? You know how long-winded he can be."

"All too well," she grouses. She agrees to accompany Hawke.

Hawke pushes the flimsy door to the clinic open. There is always a foul, mossy odor in the space. There's a patient who's getting up from the examining table. He tries to press coin to Anders hand but Anders won't accept it. Aveline commends the action quietly to Hawke who waits for the patient to exit before approaching him.

"You got my letter," Anders goes to her, his hands clasped together. "To be honest, I didn't think you'd heed it. I'm glad you've come." He looks guardedly at Aveline. "I ah—didn't think you'd be bringing anybody."

Hawke is suspicious. He isn't pleased to see Aveline. She can only imagine he's going to ask for something that neither she nor Aveline will approve of. "Just get to it." Hawke says. "I'm not in any mood for more of your speeches."

"Direct as always, I see." Anders frowns. "Fine. There are stories coming out of the Circle about mages being made tranquil. More by the day, more than should be allowed. You know what happened to Karl."

"Those are just stories," Aveline says. "Will you never tire of your conspiracy theories?"

"Spoken just like the templars' pet. They aren't conspiracy theories," Anders glares at her.

Hawke doesn't want them to get sidetracked. "What do you want me to do about it?"

"I was hoping you'd come with me, Hawke." He says her name pointedly. Aveline is already shaking her head with disapproval. "There are mages, those who've passed their harrowing, who suspect they're next on the list to be made tranquil. I won't tell you how they escape—I don't trust Aveline or you that much. But I was hoping you'd come with me to help provide them safe passage out of Kirkwall and into the Free Marches."

"You can't do this, Hawke," Aveline says.

Hawke scoffs. As usual neither one of them appears to have much faith in her convictions. "You must be joking." She says to Anders. "I'll do no such thing."

"Why not? These are the lives of mages at stake!"

"If they're being made tranquil there must be good reason."

"You're bloody joking! Do you honestly believe this tripe you spout? I can't figure you—are you an idiot or a cold-hearted bitch?"

"I’m sorry you think this is happening but I'm not helping you. I don't do this anymore. I have my life set the way that I like at long last. It's peaceful. My mother's at peace—as at peace as she can be. She deserves that. I won't risk losing that for your crusades."

"You're unbelievable."

"If it's so important to you, ask one of the others to help you with it."

"Like who? Aveline?"

"I've had enough of this," Aveline says to Hawke. "The two of you settle this. I'll be outside. I don't want to hear anything I'll have to do something about." She walks away.

Anders continues. "The others don't follow me, they follow you. Do you think I like asking for your help? I'm not expecting to get an invite to your stupid house warming party," he says, "but I thought you were above your own sanctimonious speeches to help out your fellow brothers and sisters."

"My brother and sister are dead. I don’t care about the plight of the mages. My mother's family lost everything because of the magic in her bloodline. Things are finally starting to get back to normal, they're forgetting about the downfall of the Amells. I won't endanger that by being seen running around with you or of being thought of as a mage sympathizer." She may study magic and practice magic in private but she won't sell it or use it. It’s a way of honoring her father and sister. Nothing more.

"Your noble status is more important to you than the lives of mages? How can you be so selfish? How can you allow such injustice?" His voice grows deeper. Cracks form in his skin. His eyes begin to glow blue. "You would let them die to keep your precious house on the hill?"

Her temper flares at seeing the abomination within Anders surface again. She has wrestled with what the man before her is but she can't find anything good or commendable about it. It is a spirit of fury or tainted by fury, nothing worthy, nothing safe. "I will do anything to give my mother some peace, yes! I don't want this," she gestures at him, at herself, "I don't want magic, I don't care about it! I am finished with these trips, with these expeditions. It doesn't matter anymore!" She starts to go.

Anders looks at her violently. The glowing settles down. "So because your brother is dead you no longer care about anything else?" Hawke stops and looks at him. "Varric showed me the path you took in the Deep Roads. You're so focused on your hatred and contempt for me that you've never spared me one kind word."

"I won't kill innocent templars for you so we can be friends." How often has he asked her to kill a templar for an 'innocent' mage? How often has he scorned her for refusing to comply? "I don't  _need_ to be kind to you."

"Say what you like, Hawke. I know what was down there, who was down there at that time. The Grey Wardens. Maybe if you hadn't been such a bitch about it I would have gone with you. We might have been able to save your brother from the taint of the darkspawn. Or maybe you should have listened to your mother and left him at home. Leandra's reasonable—a good woman. She and your father gave you the kindness that you refuse to give." He shakes his head. Hawke walks steadily closer to him, her jaw set tightly. "Why did I even come to you for help? When have you made a good decision? How could you possibly help me? You can't even help your family."

Rage blinds her. She slams her fist into his face without knowing she's done it. He crashes to the ground, amidst the straw and soon she's on top of him, punching him, calling him names, trying to make the guilt go away. But it doesn't go away; she can't make it go away. He's right. Everything he's said is right. Her eyes burn, her fist aches but she doesn't stop. Did her pride kill Carver?

The blue light under the cracks in his face is visible. She’s hurled backward. She flies through the air, colliding painfully into a wooden pillar. The air is knocked out of her. He gets to his feet, blood runs from his mouth and nose. He laughs. "Try it again, Hawke. How does it feel to be a castrated mage? Your first instinct is to physically strike me? I've never met anyone who hated themselves this much. It's pathetic." He sneers through the blood. "The next thing you'll be telling me you're dating Fenris. Why don't you use your power? Own it?"

She picks herself up from the floor. "I have self control!"

"Is that what you call it?" He spits a glob of blood to the side. "My face would say differently."

She's rushing to him again when she's grabbed. Hawke thrashes. She recognizes a flash of armor. She shakes free but Aveline grabs her and pulls her back. Hawke struggles but the metal hold is unbreakable. "Let me go, Aveline!"

"Calm down, Hawke," Aveline says, her arms wrapped securely around her. "Don't let him get to you. You're better than this!"

"You're nothing!" Anders wipes at the blood on his face.

"How could you say such a thing?" Aveline asks him. "Using her family against her? That's low."

"She doesn't care about the mages that die! She's unwilling to help them, no matter their innocence! Why should I care about her brother? What makes him more valuable of a life?"

"I understand your feelings—" Aveline begins.

Anders slams his staff into the ground. "No, you don't."

Hawke finally breaks free of Aveline's hold. She exits the clinic, punching the door on her way out. She doesn't wait for Aveline. Hawke sees the blood that runs down his face in her mind and goes pale. What has she done? Has she abused him for pointing out her failures? Is she wrong? Is he right? Is violence with a fist better than violence with magic? He's a mage. There's no need to hold back. But if she can lose control like that with her fists… Would she become an abomination? Senselessly killing until someone put a stop to her? Her hands are wet with blood.

She's running once again.

* * *

The housewarming party is in full swing. Merrill and Isabela expressed surprise at Merrill's invitation. "I bet Varric twisted her arm about it," Merrill commented upon walking into the party, "the home is  _very_ nice, though. It doesn't feel like it will just blow away in the middle of the night the way mine does. And I'm so happy that Leandra got away from that house with her brother. I wish Hawke were more like Leandra. Or Carver. Or anyone." They're by the stairwell. Bodahn is walking around with a silver platter with cheeses and sliced meats, breads. Merrill cheerfully takes a few sticks of cheese.

"Hawke's not so bad, Kitten," Isabela says, pulling out a small knife from her boot and discreetly cutting a sketch into the stairwell banister. "She's no fun what-so-ever, always takes everything much too seriously and she is a bit of an idiot but…oh, maybe she is that bad." Speaking of which, Isabela hasn't seen her. She's seen many nobles, she assumes the lot of them are old Amell family ties and other busy bodies curious about the new tenants to the Hawke mansion—she won't call it the Amell mansion, Hawke bought it with her coin.

Aveline has arrived with one of her guards, an ugly-sexy man named Donnic. She drinks wine and laughs far too often. Whatever is funny, Donnic doesn't appear to know it—he looks more and more confused each time she laughs. Varric is in the middle of a story, a group of people spellbound by whatever it is that he's saying. Isabela is sure whatever it is, is being pulled out of his ass as he speaks, must be good.

She finishes the engraving and sheathes the knife. Merrill is engaged in conversation with Sandal and Bodahn, being too polite or genuinely interested enough to speak to them about the cubes of cheese and meats. Boring. No one's paying attention to her now. She slips upstairs. Opens the first door on the left: Leandra's room. It is sparse but finely decorated. She takes a step inside before she's yanked back, slamming into Hawke who wears one of her typical terrifying expressions. "I wasn't going to steal anything, I swear," Isabela says, "can't a girl look  _and_ touch?"

"Stay out of my mother's room."

Isabela looks her over. Well. Isn't she pretty? She wears a pale blue evening dress, a corset around her waist, flattering her figure, highlighting, tastefully, her assets. Her black hair spills over her shoulders. She is the picture of Kirkwall nobility. The scar on her face is all the more striking. Her eyes are defiant. "It's not your mother's room I want to be in…" she touches the curve of Hawke's collarbone, her fingers sliding down to the swell of her breasts.

Hawke smacks her hand away.

"So, you took my advices and got yourself a new wardrobe.” Hawke’s expression darkens. “You look nice! Well, not nice, you've got the disposition of darkspawn but you're attractive." Hawke thanks her grudgingly. Isabela smiles and goes around her, making her way to Hawke's room. Too nice. Too clean. Too efficient, too…Hawke. "So, this is your room." She moves around to the desk and spots a journal that Hawke shuts quickly before throwing it into a drawer. "You keep a diary?" Isabela laughs. "How…adorable."

"What do you want?"

"Who throws a housewarming party and spends the majority of the evening upstairs in her room? Your mother will be  _scandalized._ " She looks around and to the armoire, under the bed. "Unless you've been misbehaving? Is there a hidden lover about?"

Hawke crosses her arms. "No."

"Where's Fenris?" Hawke shrugs. "I know why Anders isn't here." Hawke's eyebrows narrow delicately. Isabela looks at Hawke's hands. Her knuckles are red and bruised. Why doesn't she heal herself? "I can't say that I blame you. But I don't blame him, either." Hawke's expression grows darker still. "You're both so heated and stubborn. You could both stand to unwind. I remember when I met him in the Pearl years ago—he was a lot more fun, then."

"Whatever it is you have to say about that, I don't want to hear it."

"Why not?” Is she jealous? “A good story is a good story."

"You think your stories are better than they are."

"I'm better at other things," she says with a grin, "I admit it." Even if the stories tended to be about the other things that she's good at. Oh, she could tell Hawke about piracy, about the great schemes that she's pulled off in her day but Hawke would only pout more. Has it really been months since she smiled at her? It had been mocking but it had been the only time she'd done it. "You'd admit it too if you weren't such a hard ass." Hawke's smile is paler than her dress but Isabela is glad to see it. "We've never been close, Hawke and I'm not expecting us to be friends but… you look better. I know things were hard," she says, the words tapering off, her eyes going to the fireplace.

"How have you been?" Hawke asks the question roughly.

Isabela half rolls her eyes. "You don't have to ask just because I did." Well, she didn't really but… "I'm not expecting you to reciprocate—it isn't as important in conversation as it is in bed."

"Your attitude stinks."

Isabela scoffs. "What? You want to… get to know me or something?'

Hawke shifts uncomfortably. "And if I did?”

"Don't bother. You already know me as well as you need to, as much as I want you to."

"As well as a whore at the Blooming Rose?"

Isabela smiles before she can wince. "That's right. What better way?" Not even half as well. At least the whores at the Blooming Rose look at her.

"Don't you want something more than that?"

"No." She frowns. "Do you?"

Hawke runs her fingers through her hair. A beat passes. "No."

Isabela doesn't know what Hawke is going on about. The conversation has left her unsatisfied and uncomfortable. She fidgets. At least Hawke appears to be like-minded on the benefits of simple, uncomplicated fucks. "That reminds me. I brought you a present." Hawke looks surprised. It looks nice on her. Too often she's unshakeable… well. Except the really bad times. Isabela withdraws the thin book from her boot and presents it to Hawke. "The binding's a bit on the poor end but it's the content that's important."

Hawke takes it tentatively and looks at the cover. "One hundred and one uses for…" Isabela smiles. Hawke leafs through the book. "It has… diagrams."

"Ah, yes. If you're going to enlighten the masses you might as well enlighten them to the masts'," she chuckles, then speaks in a soft, confident growl, "should I have given it to Fenris instead? I wrote down some practice exercises," she turns a few pages and points, "all thoroughly researched by me, of course. They work."

Hawke stares at Isabela's finger, the diagram and then shuts the book. She tries to hand it back. "I really couldn't."

"Of course you can. I think you already have," she grins. Hawke laughs, her cheeks taking on red color. It's the first time Isabela's ever heard her laughter. It's bashful and uncertain. Hawke puts the book on the desk but promises to put it in the library later. "This thing with you and Fenris… is it serious? Are you going to have a brood of brooding children? You'll have to make big decisions like: will they wear shoes or not?" Will they throw them to the Circle if they have magic?

Hawke keeps her back to Isabela. "Maker, no."

"No shoes?"

"No marriage plans." She sighs. "Please don't tell Mother. She's already started looking for suitable prospects for me…"

"And you've found one suitable enough?"

"I didn't say that."

"Maybe she'll get you a nice fellow with a good family portrait and an atrocious Orlesian family name. At least Leandra can be counted on to  _not_ trade you off for a goat and some gold coins."

"Maker, where do you come up with these awful things?" Hawke glances back at her.

Isabela turns and stretches her arms overhead. Despite all the awfulness Hawke has seen and experienced, she can still be so painfully oblivious to the true nature of people. She doesn't want to talk about that. She returns to the topic at hand. "So it's just… shits and giggles?"

"Why do you care?"

"I just need to know how hard you would hit me if I thought of laying a finger on you. Or him. Take it from me and Anders—you hit pretty hard." Hawke's back tenses. The pale blue of her dress is complimentary against her skin, the corset she wears cinched tightly. Isabela is rattled at the desire to undo the lace, pull down the fabric and press a kiss to her shoulder. She frowns.

"If I hurt y—”

“It was a joke.” Was she paralyzed? Isabela remembers blinding pain and then nothing.

Hawke looks momentarily lost. “You're interested in Fenris?"

How like Hawke to leave Isabela's proposition to her out of it. "He's handsome. I bet we could play all kinds of kinky games where he's the magister and I'm the slave." She still wonders if Danarius oiled his lithe little body up. Oh, how she would love to play with him. "He could lead me around on a leash… Do you two play those games? Who wears the chains?"

"I'm not discussing that with you." She says tersely. "Fenris is his own man. He's free to do what he likes."

That's… surprisingly open minded of Hawke. "And you? How much free rein do you give yourself?" Isabela touches her fingers to the fireplace. She checks her fingers. No soot comes away. Is the room really so immaculate? Is Hawke? "We had fun, didn't we?"

"Don't you have enough lovers, Isabela?"

It's hard to keep a steady one. They go or make a crack about her being a whore. Or sometimes they want to stop taking her money. They always want more than she can give. Hawke isn't easy to classify. It was easier when she could only think of her as an unfeeling, heartless bitch. It bothers her how Hawke looks at her sometimes. As if she were looking at somebody else. Someone that Isabela doesn't recognize. She shakes the thoughts. "Can one ever have enough lovers?" She laughs.

Hawke doesn't. "I'm not interested."

"In me?"

"That's right."

Isabela looks back at her. "You don't have to be. What about the sex?"

"I'm not interested in that, either."

"You're lying." She sounds defensive. "The body wants what it wants. You think you can stop it with thoughts or what you think is right? You don't think that the world would be easier, fairer if it were that simple? Sometimes the more you deny something the more you're controlled by it. So be up front. It'll save everyone trouble."

"We can't all just give in to what we want. Think of how terrible things would be if everyone gave in to their base desires."

"You've given in to your base desires before. It wasn't so bad. You don't always have to be in control. Sometimes you need to give it up altogether." Isabela stands behind her. Hawke's wearing perfume. Isabela wonders where she placed it. Behind her ears? On her wrists? Her neck? Perhaps her thighs. It's easy to imagine tasting it beneath her tongue. "I want your body, Hawke. Not you. Can you argue with something so simple?" Her fingertip trails down along the ribbon of the corset, as if it were a harp. "Keep your feelings for Fenris. They don't bother me a bit."

"Stop," Hawke says softly.

"If it doesn't matter with Fenris, then this doesn't matter either." She hooks her finger beneath a ribbon and tugs. " _Does_  it matter with Fenris?"

"I don't know."

"If you don't know, it doesn't matter. Let's enjoy ourselves. It's cold outside." She looks out the window. Snow falls heavily. The wind howls. "We could close the doors. We'll be quiet." She touches Hawke's hips. Hawke turns enough so that Isabela can see her profile. She looks at it a moment too long, her arms beginning to wrap around Hawke's waist. Isabela pulls away before she can. "You're so difficult." She mutters.

Hawke goes to the door. "I really should get to the party. I'd hate for Mother to have a conniption at this obvious faux pas."

"Your mother wouldn't begrudge us an orgasm, would she?"

Hawke grimaces. "Please don't ever put the word 'orgasm' in a sentence relating to my mother. I really must go."

"Is this where you tell me to see myself out?"

"I'm glad you've saved me the trouble." She hesitates at the door. "Thanks for the present."

"You'll put it to good use?" Hawke rewards her with another faint smile. "You've turned me down on the sex, haven't you?" Isabela asks for good measure, moving to stand by her. Ah, lust. Hawke's smile is bittersweet. Isabela wishes she hadn't asked, hadn't seen it. Hawke goes downstairs without another look back. Isabela goes to the railing and observes the party below. Hawke stands by her mother, smiling at the people she's introduced to, feigning warmth where it doesn't exist. They're taken with Hawke. Every single one of them. Charmed.

Isabela sees the men that look up furtively to her when their wives don't pay attention. They look at her differently than they do Hawke. They wonder why she's there, look down on her but want to sleep with her. Bah, noble society. Isabela loves coin but the best game is to steal what doesn't belong to her, what can't be bought and refuses to be given. Nobles are all too easy. Fun, for a time but no one she'd want to be shackled with for longer.

Her eyes fall to Hawke again. Would she want Hawke if she gave in to her? If it wasn't a fight? She doesn't know. She takes the steps down slowly, maneuvers through the crowd and exits the mansion into the storm without anyone being the wiser. Even with the snow coming down heavily, even with the wind, sharp as a knife, Isabela prefers it to the cold strangeness of the mansion.


	6. Chapter 6

"Are all elves this horrible at cards?" Isabela asks. They've been playing card at Fenris' mansion. Varric and Aveline were present earlier but decided to turn in for the night. Only Fenris keeps the hours she does. As for Hawke… who cares? She doesn't know where the apostate is.

She stows away Fenris' coin and drinks from the bottle of wine, wiping at her mouth. "Don’t get me wrong, I like taking your coin, but this is getting predictable.” And predictable is just another word for  _dull._ Fenris makes a sound of discontent. Is he even listening to her? "Are you…distracted?" And his eyes aren’t even on her tits like every other Sal, Dick or Harry.

The elf scratches at his forehead, clawed metal fist clinking in agitation. "Perhaps."

Isabela smiles and deals another hand. Ah, all the more chance to make coin. She can see why Hawke likes him. He's handsome and brooding and that  _voice._  She wonders what they're like together. "So, how's the sex?"

"The sex?"

Isabela rolls her eyes. She reminds him. "With Hawke?"

Fenris stares at his hand. She's never seen him look so serious. He must have some winning cards at last. Or maybe the worst yet. "We…haven't…"

Isabela looks up sharply from her cards. "You're joking." She sees his face, twisted up with indignation. "You're blushing. Maker, you're serious." She laughs. "What are you doing wrong? It's not hard to sail that ship, is it? And it isn't as if you have to talk throughout." Though she wouldn't mind a bit of rough or dirty talk from Hawke. But she was also perfectly content to have the apostate keep her mouth shut. She remembers the grazing of Hawke's teeth along her skin. "You're not saving yourself for marriage, are you?" She laughs again, heartily. Maker knows Hawke isn't.

"It's…difficult to explain." He plays a card.

Isabela throws one down carelessly. "Sounds like you're thinking too much about it. You know what your problem is?”

“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“You're too damned serious, same as her. No wonder the two of you can't get it right. What's she like with you?" the last question is an aside. It's out, so no point in asking him not to answer.

"She's kind."

"Kind?" Well there's the problem right there. She hadn't known Hawke could be kind. She never is to Merrill or Anders. She's rarely tolerable to her. Not that she minds. There's no sex like hate sex. Not that they'd done that, necessarily. And love sex is boring sex. Not that she's ever had that but she can imagine. Missionary. How terrible. With cuddling afterwards? She snickers.

"You're inquisitive."

"Oh, you know me. I love hearing a good sex story. Sadly for the both of us, you've no details to provide." She smiles and throws down another card after Fenris. "I win again. You know, I'm always happy to provide you with material for your sex tales. You've already given me all your coin and we could both have some fun with it, too."

Fenris laughs softly. "I'll…consider that."

Isabela winks at him, cheered. "Please do." She may get her regular after all. If not Hawke, why not Fenris? Makes no difference to her.

* * *

 

"Come with me."

Isabela's fingers clench painfully around Hawke's wrist. Isabela had come into the Orlesian noble's mansion only moments ago and pulled Hawke outside, into the snow and the slippery cobblestones of Hightown.

Isabela drags Hawke behind her. Hawke can't see her face. "What is this about?" Hawke demands. "At least let me grab my cloak." It's night and she's cold. She's in a dress, her presence required at yet another noble party her mother had attended.

"There's no time."

Hawke frowns. Big flakes of snow drift from the sky as Isabela leads her to Lowtown, never once letting go of her, as if fearing that Hawke will escape to some little hole never to be found again. The walk-run to Lowtown is quick. Hawke loses her footing from time to time (blasted heels) but Isabela's steps never falter.

They're in Merrill's home before she knows it. Hawke's face and fingers are numb. A fireplace cracks and pops in the corner. Hawke is grateful for the heat. "Why have you brought me here?" Hawke asks irritably now that they've stopped. "How did you know where I'd be?"

"I asked Bodahn. Who cares?" She turns the corner into Merrill's room. "I couldn't find Anders," she says from the other room. Hawke reluctantly follows. She hasn't been to Merrill's home… well, since the first time she'd moved into it. It looks better. She doesn't remember the massive eerie mirror that now sits in the room. It doesn't cast a reflection. Who has need of a broken mirror? "Will you forget the damned mirror?" Isabela says sharply. Isabela kneels beside Merrill, who is paler than usual, and shifts the elf so that her head and shoulders rest on her lap. There's a puddle of blood on the floor and a knife, wet with it. Hawke glowers. "I don't know what she's done but I can't get her to wake." She looks down at Merrill, her face knit in worry.

"This is more of her blood magic nonsense," Hawke says shaking her head with disgust. She looks down at Merrill whose arms are lined with open cuts, the insides of the wounds startlingly red, the green of her clothing stained dark. "What was she trying to do? Summon a demon? Something equally stupid?"

Isabela's eyes flash angrily. "Look, you can get on your high horse another time but right now will you bloody help her?" Hawke looks down at Merrill indifferently. "Hawke!" Isabela shouts. "I will gut you like a fish if you don't do something, I swear it."

Hawke clenches her teeth but kneels beside Merrill. The bottom of her dress is soaked in blood instantly. Hawke twitches unknowingly. She takes Merrill's face roughly in her hand and turns it to look at her. Her eyes are closed. She's pale as a ghost. The stupid girl. Still, she'd brought her food, she'd mourned the loss of Carver. Had they been close? "How long has she been like this?" Hawke asks.

"I don't know. I found her like this. I tried to find Anders, he's closer and I know what a pain in the ass you are about this. Is this really the time for talking?"

"I suppose not." She mutters. She brings her hands to Merrill's arms, over the cuts. Her skin is cold and clammy. Hawke begins. Healing is the most exhausting of the magics. It's creation. It's revival. It means an exchange. The energy and health of a healer for that of the beneficiary. Her hands warm. Hawke feels the bite of the knife on her arms, striking at her, with the same sharp intensity Merrill must have had to create the cuts. Hawke doesn't understand why someone would willingly engage in something so dangerous, in something so painful. The sleeves of her dress begin to take on horizontal stripes of blood but Merrill's color is looking better. Minutes later the elf takes a breath.

"I think it's working," Isabela says, her voice flushed with relief. She looks at Hawke gratefully and back down to Merrill. "See that, Kitten? She isn't a monster after all. You're going to be fine," she strokes her hair.

Hawke listens to her voice, listens to the relief. She hadn't known that Isabela could care for anyone. Of all the people to care for. She bites her tongue to keep from making a sound as the pain shoots through her arms. Her cheeks are rosy from pain and she's lightheaded.

Merrill's eyes flutter and open. They settle first on Hawke, confused and then on Isabela. "What happened?" her voice is groggy and weak. She turns awkwardly on her side and looks at the blood on the floor, on Hawke's dress and to Hawke's angry face. "Isabela, did you…?" she looks to the pirate. "You didn't have to get her. This just… this just happens now and then."

"You idiot." Hawke gets to her feet after a small struggle. She looks at Isabela. "Don't bother me with this next time."

"I didn't ask for your help," Merrill says defensively.

"Good." Hawke says. "I'll remember that next time and let you die like any other blood mage."

"Stop it, both of you." Isabela stands and looks between the two of them. Hawke looks down at her dress and sighs. There's no way she can return to the party like this. She hadn't wanted to be there but she hadn't wanted to be pulled away for  _this_ either. "Do you two always have to fight? I tire of you both."

Merrill looks as if she's been chastised by an elder, respected figure. She looks shamefully at the blood on the floor. "I'm sorry, Isabela. I never meant to worry you."

"You did," Isabela sighs. "Hawke didn't have to help. I couldn't get you to wake up—sorry. Maybe I panicked." She runs her fingers nervously through her hair, her eyes flick to Hawke with some embarrassment.

"You did what any friend would." Hawke says stiltedly. Nor is she so sure that Merrill might not have bled to death if Isabela hadn't gotten her. "Don't threaten my life again on her account." She takes a careful step away from them. "Merrill… stop this foolishness of yours. It isn't worth your life."

"I have to think of my people." Merrill says. "How would you feel if I told you to not use your magic to aid your family?"

Hawke turns on her sharply. It isn't the same damned thing. Isabela steps between them. "You," she says to Merrill, "get into a bath and clean up. You need to rest. I'll find you something to eat. I swear," she mutters, "you're no better than an actual kitten at times…"

"But—" Merrill starts.

Isabela points to the bath. Merrill pouts and goes. Isabela turns to Hawke. "You've got blood all over that nice dress of yours. I'll buy you another one."

"There's no need."

She takes Hawke's hands, caked in blood, looks at the arms, covered in the mess. "How exactly does this healing stuff work? That night…with us…" she looks down at Hawke's fingers, "I thought the markings on you were ones I'd made. Were they?"

"Some," Hawke says reluctantly. She doesn't want to talk about it. She doesn't want to look at Isabela's curious and concerned face, or listen to her voice with its talent for undoing and breaking the strongest of defenses.

"You didn't have to be so careful with me." She bows her head. "Sorry about Merrill. I thought—. I was worried."

Hawke waits a long beat. "It's fine."

"What about you?"

"I'll heal."

Isabela nods. "Well, let me walk you out. I'd hate for the two of you to tear into one another. You're both surprisingly scrappy but I think you'd win." They walk out to the living room. Hawke looks at the countless books on the shelves. She wonders what knowledge is stored there, what more she could learn. Sometimes she resents her own stubbornness. She won't abide bloody magic or blood mages. They're all dangerous.

They're outside in no time. Hawke looks up to the sky. There are several torches burning. The effect of the snow drifting past strikes her as beautiful. In all of Kirkwall she prefers the alienage the most. It may be poor but there is a warmth here, a sense of community that is absent from the other parts of the city.

"Back to the party with you?" Isabela asks with a smile. "You know, I think they'd object more to you trailing snow into their fine home than the blood on your gown. Poor manners are oh so ghastly."

Hawke smiles. "I think you're right." Ah, the parties do bore her. There's never anyone very interesting to talk to. All are happy to discuss their aversion to apostates or their aversion to the templars. Politics don't interest her. "I should go."

"Right." Neither one of them moves. "I'll make this up to you, Hawke."

"Don't make promises you can't keep."

"I'm much more than just talk. You know that." She shivers, rubs her arms and smiles. "Enjoy the walk back to Hightown. You wouldn't have far to go if you'd stayed down here. How can you live your life up there? You need more excitement in your life. Someone like you can't just sit around waiting for the rest of her days."

"I think I've had enough excitement to last a lifetime."

"You sound so sure and yet you're so wrong." She grins. "You don't  _have_ to go back to Hightown. I've got a perfectly suitable room at the Hanged Man."

"And you've got a perfectly idiotic blood mage to babysit.”

"I so hate responsibility," Isabela says bitterly. She shakes her head but fishes a key out and throws it to Hawke. "Clean up, at least. Your mother…" She bites her lip.

The memory of that last conversation, just out of the Deep Roads, hits her violently. No. That's done now. She takes a breath and lets it go. "Is your room my own personal bath?" Hawke asks catching the key. Isabela smiles bittersweetly. Hawke catches the tip of Isabela's chin with her bloody fingertips.

Isabela flicks her eyes at her and then away. She laughs but doesn't break free. "I hope you have a good follow up."

"How's this?" Hawke kisses her. Isabela wraps her arms around her and draws her close, kissing her hungrily. Flakes of snow fall on their cheeks, their eyelids, their lips making their kiss an icy, melting exchange. Hawke tells herself to pull away but she doesn't, allowing only an extra moment that culminates into multiple moments, into a minute before she finally breaks the kiss breathlessly. She brushes the snow from Isabela's shoulder, leaving red streaks from Hawke's bloody hands. The same streak is on Isabela's chin. A crease lines Hawke's brow. Hawke wipes carefully at Isabela's chin until the spot of blood is gone. She kisses her again, slow and brief this time. Isabela reciprocates. Hawke's eyes are half-closed when she withdraws. Isabela looks at her curiously. Hawke returns the key to her. "I have a bath at home."

Disappointment marks her face. "That's not the point, is it?"

"That is the point, actually." What is she doing? Does she need to complicate matters further? Is she as indiscriminate as Isabela or is she unable to resist her? Unwilling to resist her? This habit of hers to screw around on the elves she's casually seeing with Isabela is starting to become an unfortunate pattern. "I don't want to be the kind of person who messes around. Fenris has been kind."

"He's kind, you're kind. Know who else is kind? Your mum and Aveline but… it doesn't mean we should sleep with them. Fenris bores you. Forget him."

How does she know a thing like that? Fenris doesn't bore her. He's fine. He's handsome. He's kind. And… kindness is often not properly appreciated. "You should go in. You're always underdressed."

"Meet me in my room later. I won't be here all night."

Hawke considers it. She wants to meet her. She wants to be with her. But it's lust. Nothing more. "No." She says too gruffly. She pauses, speaks softly. "It's really good of you to care for Merrill." she begins the walk back to Hightown.

* * *

 

The sky is the color of embers, with dusk rapidly approaching and the stars peering out. Isabela leaves the Blooming Rose with a purse of coin merrily jingling in her hand. She's in good spirits—something about the Blooming Rose does that to her—besides the obvious. It's the only place in Hightown she can stand.

She's readying to slip back to Lowtown when she sees Hawke in the distance. Her face is mildly irritable. Oh, why not go bother her and make her  _surly_? Isabela goes to her, snow crunching beneath her boots. She adjusts the long red scarf around her neck. You never get too cold in Kirkwall—if you keep moving anyway and Isabela hates to stand still...

"I almost didn't recognize you outside of a dress." Isabela says with a laugh. "Well, you know what I mean." Hawke wears less formal attire than she has been in some time—the long black jacket with the red sash looks much like its old one but there are no frays, no loose thread. Her hair is tied up in the loose low ponytail again. What an affront to the nobles of Hightown for her to try to look so…common. Try, anyway.

Isabela hasn't seen her since the incident with Merrill. She'd hoped to run into Hawke again and convince her to take her up on her offer of spending the night. Hawke makes mixed signals a trade. Even now she stands like a statue, vigilant. Hawke looks in the direction where Isabela came.

"Have you been to the Rose?" Hawke asks looking up at the flags that billow softly in the breeze.

"Just for business, not pleasure. Strange, I know."

Hawke smiles. "Very."

Isabela shakes the coin purse in her hand. The weight reassures her. Contrary to popular belief she doesn't just piss all her coin away at the Rose. She has other expenses: there's her room—it isn't free, copious amounts of alcohol and information. Information on the relic and Castillon and all her other secret delights cost a good deal of coin, more than the rest of it combined. Staying alive is a pricey venture. "So… are you headed anywhere in particular? Off to see a certain former elven slave?"

The smile disappears. "No." she adds: "I saw him earlier."

"Did he fuck you silly?" Oh, it's worth it just to see Hawke's cross face.

"That isn't your business."

"Because," she continues as if Hawke hadn't spoken. "I put out."

"You don't say."

"You should have visited me that night." She’d hoped Hawke would change her mind, change her bloody dress and return to Lowtown. She had, of course, chosen to be stick to her predictable word.

A regretful smile touches Hawke's lips. "I shouldn't have done that."

"I like that you did."

"It was only a kiss."

"For now." Isabela steps closer. "You're wearing your blindfold as a sash. How… resourceful." It isn't the same one. The material is thicker, of finer quality. It isn't as soft or as translucent. It has weight. Isabela hooks her finger beneath the sash and pulls her closer. Hawke steps near at the gentle pressure. "So…why did you start seeing Fenris? Were you bored? Do you like pointy eared things? Or…"

"Or?"

"It's been near two years. I assume it's safe to ask. Do you regret taking me to the Deep Roads?" Isabela keeps her eyes on the belts of Hawke's coat. She chances a look up. Hawke's face is frustratingly unreadable. "You didn't mind sleeping with me before then." Sure, it'd only been twice but she would challenge Hawke to deny that she'd enjoyed it. Maker, has it really been two years? What the void does she have to do to get the woman to take her to bed again?

"I don't want to talk about that."

"Is there anything you do like to talk about?" Snow flutters past. The snow likely won't stay around much longer. All the snow banks are melting into pools of ice. The sun is staying up longer. Hawke's face is drenched in the light of the setting sun. "I'm surprised you have a basic vocabulary with all the things you dislike talking about." She releases Hawke who takes a step back as if Isabela's simple pressure was the only thing that had kept her there. "That's fine. I'm not big on talking either. Action is so much more enjoyable."

"You're very aggressive," Hawke tells her sharply.

"So are you. But I don't say it like it's an insult. Don't you need someone with a little more bite?"

"I don't need anyone, Isabela. Least of all you."

"Good. I don't want you to 'need' me. I don't  _need_ you to need me. I'm not one of those women, Hawke," she says with a sardonic laugh. "But surely… you can see the advantage of someone more… free spirited?"

"Why are you really after me? You have no reason to like me."

"I like a challenge."

"I'm not a project—I won't be a prize."

Isabela laughs. "You aren't. So relax." She slips her fingers under the material of Hawke's jacket, her fingers grazing her neck. Her skin is warm and soothing beneath Isabela's fingertips. "Have you told Fenris of our kiss?"

There's a delay. "… I haven't."

"Why?"

"It meant nothing."

"That's true. Neither does Fenris." Isabela shifts her gaze, catching Hawke's eyes, letting Hawke's eyes catch hers. "What are you capable of…?" She brushes a snowflake from Hawke's eyebrow, from her cheek. "Your eyes are colder than all the winters put together."

Hawke laughs softly. "Is that what you see?"

"Prove me wrong." Isabela challenges. Hawke pulls Isabela's hand away and leaves. Isabela looks after her. "You're only proving my point, you know." The idiot.

* * *

 

"What is that you're reading?" Fenris asks.

Hawke scans several more lines before she reluctantly shuts the small book. She extends it to him. Fenris remains sitting on the bench. Hawke holds the book out for some moments longer, remaining on the floor by the fireplace where she sits. He doesn't reach out for the book. After a small shake of his head she lowers it beside her. "Nothing special," she says.

A book on magic. She's glad that he didn't take it or examine it closely. It hadn't occurred to her prior to bringing it over that he might dislike it. It isn't uncommon for them to sit in silence, she reading and he whittling some wooden figurine or drinking morosely. Still, she would like to think of him as more open minded. He is involved with her, after all.

She thinks of Isabela and her taunts. The woman is insufferable. So often she seeks to clarify that what is between them is only sex—and still, despite Hawke's insistence, she often implies that Hawke wants something more. She doesn't. Why would she? All this time later… she still doesn't trust her. She looks at Fenris. He is more prone to bouts of violence but can she blame him? She can't imagine what it must be to have been a slave to a bloodthirsty mage. What kind of humiliation was he made to suffer? Once more, she feels ashamed of the power that runs through her veins.

She crawls the three steps over to him and rises, setting her hands on his thighs. He looks at her with his typical curiosity and caution. She wonders what she is to him. Truthfully… she doesn't want to be important to Fenris. That would mean some kind of responsibility and obligation and care… She frowns. Is she really so selfish? His fingers stroke her hair, the edges of her face. He is so serious that it pains her to look at him. "I kissed Isabela." She says. More than that, really but before that just as unimportant.

She doesn't know why she says it. Maybe she's trying to prove a point to the pirate woman. If it's out in the open it's nothing to be ashamed of. It isn't a secret. It is what it was: nothing. Fenris' touch stops. His eyebrows narrow. "Why are you telling me?"

She looks to him. She doesn't know. She's never had a relationship that wasn't clandestine in some way. She's never brought a lover to her family. Varric has been the first to know of anyone—and Isabela has no filter. Hawke has never been open about her involvements with anyone. It's the reason she gets into such difficult circumstances. Maybe she will always hide everything. Everything about her life has always had to be hidden. Including her feelings. Sometimes even to herself. She's an apostate in Thedas. Maybe things were different in her parents' time. Or easier. She's not sure. "I didn't want to lie to you about it." Is that true? She hadn't wanted him to hear it from Isabela first. Maker. The stupid things that she does.

"Is she…important to you?"

"No," she says quickly. He regards her with some concern and suspicion. She wants to take his hand and press a kiss to it, to reassure him. She doesn't. She wonders if she's only trying to prove a point with Fenris. If the one person who hates mages more than anything can think highly of her…then perhaps…

No. If she's using him for the purpose of reassuring herself, then she's the worst person around. He still has said nothing. Isabela had mentioned that she was attracted to the elf. She wonders if she and Fenris have had their own intimate moments. Though she doubts there would be much talking or sharing of silences then. Would it bother her if Fenris and Isabela were together?

No. Why should it?

"Are you going to say anything?" She asks. She stares at her hand on his knee. "It wasn't a big deal. So why don't you kiss me already?" Otherwise what else do they do? She can do this with Varric—and have more fun. Fenris grabs her shoulders and pulls her up. He leans forward. "Actually," she says softly, "I've remembered some things I must do." Her eyes are on the fireplace, on the book, on the stones of the floor. "I should go."

"Then go." He releases her suddenly, his expression darkening.

She slumps in front of him. He's angry. She doesn't blame him. She's distracted. She stands and grabs her book. She thinks that she ought to apologize. What is this that they're doing? Once again she hopes that she doesn't mean anything to him. She never should have bothered him. It really is her fault for being so bloody casual about everything.

She grabs her book and goes.

"Elf is in a mood," Varric says. "Have you seen him recently? I've never seen such powerful brooding! Could be that I'm taking all his coin. He should learn to cheat like all the other elves." He looks at Merrill who has piqued her ears, her cheeks going rosy. "I don't mean you, Daisy. You could stand to pick up a few tricks."

"I'm afraid I don't know much about cheating or cards…" Merrill laments. She scrutinizes her cards with comical intensity. "How does one learn how to cheat…? Is there a guild or… a training one must attend? Do you suppose I could get in?"

"If you want to cheat, you can't be so damned sweet," Isabela says. Merrill looks at her, her face reddening. It really pisses Isabela off how Hawke can be such a bitch when it comes to Merrill. If Hawke had been the one to find her, Isabela thinks, she'd likely have let her die. "Don't worry, Kitten," Isabela winks at her, "if you're really interested I'll show you."

"We don't take your coin and you don't tend to gamble," Varric grumbles to Merrill. "Besides, we can't have you figuring out all of our tricks. You'd find a way to have it all come out at an unfortunate time."

"I'm so sorry," Merrill is aghast. "I always say things when I don't mean to say things…" she looks at Varric, "what were you saying about Fenris? If he's brooding then maybe he's just being extra Fenris-y. You know, down with the magisters and the mages and all hail… does he like anything?"

Varric chuckles and throws down coins. "I'd wager he likes Hawke."

Merrill’s incredulous. "Why? How can he like Hawke and not like me?"

"You're a mage," Isabela says. "Oh, right." She smiles. "Don't tell me you want Fenris to like you?" Merrill makes a face. "Then you want Hawke to like you?" Merrill's displeasure is even more evident. "The problem with you Merrill is that you're too thoughtful. They're both pretty and that's reason enough for me."

"Is that why you like me?" Merrill asks.

"Of course," Isabela stretches a hand out, ruffles Merrill's hair, then: "and countless other reasons." Merrill smiles. She really is adorable and doesn't have a high opinion of herself. A shame. "Anyway, if Fenris is brooding it must be because… Hawke isn't sleeping with him. I know that'd make me cranky." She laughs. "I don't think it's her choice."

"How can you say such a thing?" Merrill asks. "I'd hate to be with either one of them."

"Then you've never learned the value of a carefree fuck," Isabela says to her. Merrill's face is near crimson now. Varric looks at the elf and laughs. "Isn't she cute?" Varric nods. "But anyway…" Isabela continues. "I can't say that I actually know what the problem is." That's only partly true. She's seen him recently. She had stolen a kiss from him. He seemed bothered but hadn't protested too much. Maybe she shouldn't have taken advantage…but something told her he'd wanted her to. She's not as bloody complicated as Hawke is. Whatever the problem with him and Hawke is… it isn't an absent sex drive on his end. She giggles. Varric and Merrill look at her questioningly. "Oh. It's nothing," she says.

* * *

 

"What are you doing?" Fenris roars watching the rockslide come down thunderously, cutting the path between the fleeing Circle mages and the templars. A cloud of snow lifts in the air, covering them. Fenris moves past it, watching the mages continue to run. He turns his murderous look to Hawke. "You're aiding their escape?" He points to the mages. "You're sabotaging the templars? What’s the matter with you?"

Hawke heaves for breath. She's only able to pull frigid air into her lungs. So much for a romantic carefree trip to the Free Marches. She shouldn't leave her home if she wants to be at peace. Guilt presses her. She'd acted without thinking—something she'd always vowed to not do. She had seen the Circle mages running, their young faces pleading and afraid—she had seen the templars intent on capturing them, their swords brandished. Hawke outstretched her staff and cracked the overarching mountain down. She hadn't thought it through. But she won't regret it. "I can't condemn them to a life I'm unwilling to live. They're trained." Yes, they're trained. That makes all the difference.

Fenris swears. Hawke doesn't understand the language but she knows swearing when she hears it. "So is Anders," he says, "so is Merrill!"

She knows that. She doesn't want to argue about it. She looks up at the clear blue sky and the flurries that drift down. She can hear templars shouting from the other side. This isn't the time to debate. "So am I."

"You think you're different," he asks with a sneer.

Now she sees it. That look he has directed at Anders and Merrill as long as he has known them. The look that he had directed towards her in the beginning. She had thought they had moved past that. There it is again. The same look  _she_  has always given Anders and Merrill. Is that what it looks like? Does it infuriate them? Hurt them? Or do they go numb? It's still cold outside. They've been walking for some time. "I've hurt no one," Hawke defends. "The templars are on the other side. They're fine."

"And when those mages become cornered or lose control of themselves and injure and murder others, what about those innocents?"

Hawke wonders why he doesn't remember the other times when she has felt just as he has, when she has argued just as he has, when she has killed mages or sent them to the Circle just as he had advocated. Do those other times mean nothing? Can she never falter? Can she never disagree? "I won't allow a templar to kill an innocent mage."

"There is no such thing as an innocent mage!" he curls his fist beside him.

She grits her jaw. "You can't judge what you don't know will happen."

"I can judge by my experiences, by the example we see throughout Kirkwall. You know what becomes of free mages!"

"Stop shouting," she says lethally. She is able to just barely keep her voice from shaking.

Fenris turns his face away and scowls, his face a furious stormy expression. "I thought you were better than this, smarter than this. Where will you draw the line?"

"Where will you? I know the dangers! Don't you trust me?" Hawke allows the silence she waits for him to fill it. She wonders if his anger is about what she told him regarding Isabela. She discounts it. She hopes that he wouldn't be so petty. He isn't. He knows to value what is important. Seconds pass and he still hasn't answered. "I can't change your feelings. But if you think for even a moment that I'm any less dangerous than those children," she points at the mages who are quickly becoming dots in the distance, "then you're a bloody fool. You have no idea what I'm capable of."

His eyes narrow, his lyrium markings glowing. "Was that a threat?"

She hadn't expected the accusation. "No."

He's quiet a long time. Then: "This was a bad idea."

"We have freed slaves countless times over, what is the difference?"

"Only everything. They are not slaves."

"Not according to you they're not." She hates this conversation. It's confusing her. She doesn't want to be Anders, she doesn't want to be Merrill. Why is she fighting with the man with whom she has always most closely agreed with? "It's done," she says, "let's not argue it."

"You don't understand. Fool mistake as it was to let them go, that wasn't the mistake I was referencing. I mean this. I meant us."

The mages are gone now. The snow that was falling earlier has turned to rain. Hawke hadn't noticed. She looks down at her boots now steeped in mud. She looks at the repulsion on Fenris' face. Is it the rain that stings?

Is it worth arguing? Was she foolish to think he could see her as more than an apostate? Should she try to capture the runaway Circle mages? Would that win him back? At what cost? Her beliefs? His? No. He isn't that important. She begins the walk back without another word. She knows when something is over. They reach Kirkwall and separate without exchanging goodbyes. She was stupid to think that anyone could accept her unconditionally.

It should hurt. It doesn't. She isn't sure which one of them turned on the other first. Maybe they were always nothing. She regrets the loss of his respect and friendship. She regrets the awkwardness it will create when she spends time with Varric and he's there. Had she misled him? Had she toyed with him? No. She doesn't think so, anyway…

There's a nagging feeling, some conscience not her own that implores her to care more. She doesn't.

Maybe Isabela is right. Maybe she is cold.

* * *

 

"I want you to help me steal something," Isabela says. She's crept up to Hawke in the Hightown market and settled her hands on her shoulders. She's pulling Hawke back to whisper in her ear when she spots Leandra beside her. Leandra has the look of a disapproving mother bear when her young is at stake. Isabela lets Hawke go. "Oh. Hello, Leandra."

"What's this about stealing?" Leandra asks. She looks at Isabela first and then at Hawke who has a curious blush on her cheeks. Isabela thinks it's delightful. Does Hawke keep secrets from mother dearest? Isabela considers—who doesn't Hawke keep secrets from?

"It's nothing, Mother," Hawke says handing her mother a bouquet of flowers from the vendor. "She's only joking. You know I haven't done that since the year of servitude passed…" Hawke doesn't look at either woman.

"That's good," Leandra says with some relief. "I raised you better than that, Viktoria."

Isabela smirks at the name even as Leandra looks her over. Oh, Leandra doesn't approve of her one bit and no doubt she thinks Hawke is some holy blessed figure, a paragon of a daughter. "Don't worry, Leandra. I'll help sweet Viktoria out of whatever scrape she can get into." She glances at Hawke. "You know how happy I am to lend a hand."

Hawke lashes out as if to strike her. Isabela is perfectly still. Leandra looks mortified. Hawke's hand slows and grazes Isabela's face, cupping it before it falls back to her side. Isabela brushes her fingers over her cheek as if pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. She and Hawke don't look at each other.

Leandra clears her throat. "I'll… leave you two girls to talk." She looks Isabela over again. "Aren't you cold, dear?"

Isabela laughs. "You're so sweet to worry. The snow's all but gone now and I've made it this far without. Besides, it'd be a sin to hide these beaut—" She starts to grab her breasts when Hawke drags her away, "it was lovely to see you, Leandra!" she says blowing her a kiss. Leandra waves worriedly. "Ooh, we're playing rough today, are we?" she asks Hawke when they're some distance away. "I like that."

"Don't you know how to behave around mothers? Are you a barbarian?" Hawke asks. Isabela grins. "You need help stealing?"

"I don't  _need_  help, I'd  _like_ help. Are you in? Or is Mum's disapproving gaze enough to make you beg for forgiveness?" Isabela thinks of Hawke begging for forgiveness and feels a happy current run through her. "Speaking of mothers," she says before Hawke can respond, "did you tell yours I was a whore or was there something in my outfit that gave her that impression?"

"You dress like a whore. You act like a whore."

"You've never complained." Isabela crosses her arms. In the end Hawke is the same as every other man she's ever met—happy to bed her and then call her a whore afterward. Predictable, predictable, predictable. "So," she begins conversationally, "I hear Fenris dumped you."

Hawke's eyes shift elsewhere. "Is that what it was?" she does something that might be a shrug.

"How terrible it must be to be so broken up about it," she smiles. Fenris practically chased her out of the mansion when she stopped by to visit. Several days later she received an underwhelming apology and an explanation as to what had happened between Hawke and him. He'd never said it was a break up—but Isabela knows Fenris and Hawke's reaction is just enough to confirm it.

"I told you before that it was nothing."

"No, you told me before that you didn't know what it was.  _I_ told you it was nothing. Who were you trying to convince? Me? Yourself? Fenris?" Isabela watches Hawke who looks at her, through her. She wonders if Hawke is capable of caring for anyone that isn't family. Just when she thinks she's close to figuring her out, she yanks the rug out from under her. Hates mages one day, saves them the next, tells her she isn't interested in her, kisses her afterward, insists that Fenris is nothing when she'd implied she didn't want to cheat on him… Obnoxious, confusing woman. "Whatever. Do you want to help me out with this? It may be a false lead but it's the only one I've had in years and I've really got to get that tom—" She cuts herself off, "that relic back."

"What's in it for me?"

Isabela laughs. "You have more coin than half of Kirkwall now. I could give you a copper to add to your collection. The lure of adventure?" Hawke looks unimpressed. "What  _do_ you want? Another fuck? I would  _love_ that. Why not we pretend we just had it a few minutes ago since you already skipped to the part where you called me a whore?"

"I said you look and act like one. I didn't say you were one."

"Oh! That makes all the difference. Silly me." Isabela laughs darkly. "Listen, Hawke—don't do me any favors. You're pretty but your personality is lousy and your heart—" She jabs a finger at her chest, "is  _coal._ "

"What do you care about my heart?" she asks, "Aren't you the one who's told me over and over again that you don't give a damn about feelings? You only ever talk about sex or wanting sex or paying for sex—and then get angry when someone thinks that's all there is to you."

"You've got me there. Either way, you're not the only fish in the sea. And I could do without someone who doesn't respect me. I've had a lot of that, Hawke, throughout all of my life. People who think they know me, who would use me and throw me away." Not only men, women too, her family, her useless now happily dead husband. "I don't need it from you, too. I don't bloody have to take it." Isabela looks up to Hawke's stony face. "I'm perfectly capable on my own."

"Sorry," she mumbles.

Isabela realizes that Hawke is awkward. She shakes her head. She hadn't wanted an apology, hadn't expected one. "I like to have fun, all right? But not at my expense."

"Right." She stares at Isabela's boots.

"Why are you so bloody awkward? Haven't you ever been in a proper—" Isabela stops. Where ever that sentence was going, she's sure it isn't the direction she wanted for it to go. She drops. "We keep getting sidetracked—I don't know if that's your fault or mine. I'll ask again and let you answer this time, I promise: will you go to the Wounded Coast with me and help me get the relic back?"

"Yes."

"I'll…want you to bring that staff of yours. Or you could just pull that stick out of your ass if we're in a pinch," she says cocking a grin. "I'm not expecting much of a fight but if there is one—well, I know you can bring it. I know you don't—" She knows that Hawke doesn't like to use magic but that's what Isabela's expecting. If she wants a mage waving a knife around she might as well bring Merrill—she'll be better at it than Hawke will.

"It's fine," Hawke cuts her off. "I'll go. Anyway… if it will help you with Castillon then…" She looks at her skeptically. "You're  _sure_ you don't know what this relic is?"

Isabela laughs and plays with her earring. "I haven't the foggiest." Hawke looks at her for a long time. Isabela shifts and crosses her arms. "Are you going to stare at me all day? Can't say I don't like the attention but… I'd really just like to go get that relic."

Hawke eventually turns her mistrustful eyes away from Isabela and informs her she'll go get her staff from the mansion. Isabela heaves a sigh of relief. She suspects that Hawke doesn't trust her at all—but as long as she's helping her, whether she's lying or not isn't a big deal. What the relic is, where she got it from—what does it matter? She's not hurting anyone.

* * *

 


	7. Chapter 7

"I wasn't counting on the spiders," Isabela pulls wisps of spider webbing from her hair and clothing. It sticks. She keeps finding more and more of it. Hawke looks at her, ire and amusement twisting her features into haughty disdain. Normally Isabela would enjoy it—normally. "And I'm no closer to that blasted relic." The Wounded Coast is a bust.

"I hope you didn't pay much for this 'good' lead of yours," Hawke looks towards the trail of spider corpses behind them, limbs twisted inward like teeth. The caves are dark and chilly, howling every now and then with the scream of a running wind.

"Not as much as  _he'll_ pay," she sighs, wiping cold sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. Blast it. She'd thought the relic would be hers this time. "Maker those things smell awful—no more awful than a ship full of men in the middle of sea who haven't bathed in months, though. That's one of the things that I don't miss. Anyway, sorry that this didn't pan out—for either of us."

"I'll forgive you—just this once."

Isabela laughs. "And what happens next time I lead you astray?"

"I'll let the spiders have you." Hawke watches as Isabela pulls a long thread of spider web from her jacket.

"You'll leave me in their tangled webs?"

Hawke shrugs delicately. In the next instant her expression goes dangerous. Isabela is shoved to the side. She collides into an irregular, hard wall with rough edges. Isabela hisses when the rock slices into her arm. She turns, ready with a shout when Hawke lifts her staff. Isabela shields her eyes—the light of the flame that Hawke summons is blinding. A moment later her nose prickles with the foul stench of scorched spiders. The caves, previously cool are now hot and muggy. Isabela pushes away from the wall and looks at the burning spiders, turned upside down and twitching.

"I'll take that heroic response as a 'no'," Isabela wipes at the blood on her arm. It runs down her arm easily though it doesn't sting much. Hawke rips a piece of red cloth from the sash around her waist. Isabela is ready with a joke when Hawke wraps the fabric around the cut on her arm. "What's this?"

"You've told me not to bother healing you," Hawke says continuing to wrap the red cloth delicately before tying it firmly into place. Is this the same woman who told her she'd feed her to spiders only moments ago? "Is that too tight?" Isabela shakes her head with confusion. Hawke pats the red cloth once to test it, keeps her head bowed. Isabela can't see her face. "Good."

* * *

"No, no, no," Varric strides up to the two men carrying the large crate and waves his arms. They stop, the muscles in their arms bulging with the weight they carry. "Not that way," he says with a nod to the second floor, "there," he points to the wharf. They awkwardly shift course and begin the steep descent, down the wooden planks and onto the sandy shore to the boardwalk. Varric sighs and looks at Hawke. "We've got some real shit for brains here," he shakes his head, "tell me, Hawke: am I difficult to understand?"

"Not at all, dear man. Just impossible to bed. Maybe they're just distracted by your piercing eyes of that mass of manly chest hair." She settles her hands on her hips, watching the men move about. Varric grunts in response. "Their brains may be shit but their arms should be immortalized." She doesn't know any men with arms like that…

Varric laughs. "In the neighborhood for a new boyfriend?"

"If _you're_  available." She smiles down at him and once again he shakes his head. Varric is a dwarf—but sometimes she forgets—everything about his demeanor, his attitude makes him appear to be taller, grander than his appearance would suggest. "I'm not in the neighborhood for anything. Asides from smuggling lethal poisons, that is. Mother would disapprove but that just makes it all the more enticing."

He arches his eyebrow quizzically at her. "Doesn't sound like you."

"Get to know me."

"If you're desperate…" he begins. Hawke piques. "There are a few whores at the Blooming Rose Isabela could recommend." Hawke's disappointed. So much promise squashed in so little time. He smiles fondly, "Junior had some favorites, too. Though—I imagine you wouldn't be interested in those."

"Oh, there's nothing more that I wish for than to share my dead brother's lovers," she says making a face. "Sadly, if I were in the mood for that," sex, that is, "the Blooming Rose might be my best bet." She frowns, her face warming. "I'm not really…good with people, Varric." She's slept with others but relationships have always eluded and confused her. There are those who could have never known who she really was. Athenril who was happy to use her for her cartel and Hawke was happy to use her for sex. Fenris ultimately couldn't accept her. Neither of those were relationships. Not really. Most women Hawke's age are married. Her mother is growing frantic.

"You're not so bad—if you ever let people know you. Even Aveline and Elf smile more than you do. I see it on your face, Kid. You've got a sense of humor. You've got a smile that would knock the boots off of people—if they ever saw it. And you've also got a chip on your shoulder bigger than all of Thedas. You've gotta loosen up."

"Easier said than done."

"It's not healthy being so tense all the time," he insists.

"I'm open to a massage, if that's what you're offering."

"I'm glad my well-meaning advice has been skillfully ignored, again."

"You know me: if it isn't about sex or blood mages I'm not interested."

"I'll keep that in mind," he says dryly. "So, Rivaini tells me you went on a little adventure but nothing turned out?"

"Ah, yes, the hunt for the great mystery relic. All we found were spiders on top of spiders and spider webs. And a chest with a boot and awful poetry. So many spider families vanquished in the search for the relic and so little reward." She sighs. "If she could ever be bothered to just track Castillon down, we could kill him and be done with it." She has no sympathy for slavers. "What could be so bloody important about one relic? It's no lyrium idol."

Varric makes a face at the mention. "Another useless treasure that people are happy to kill for."

"Any leads on Bartrand yet?"

"Not yet. Soon as I find him you'll be the first to know."

"What will you do then? Still ready to let Bianca do the talking?"

"I still have my finger on the trigger if that's what you mean. As for the rest…" He shakes his head, the topic not agreeing with him.

"Family's important, Varric. What he did was wrong. But just… think about it, all right?" She smiles weakly. If Bethany or Carver had done such a thing, had committed such a betrayal, would she forgive them? Could she? Yes. What other choice would she have? What is she, without family? Who would she have without family? She only has her mother at this point. There's her uncle too but he's made no secret of his low opinion of her.

"Yeah, yeah… There's a game of diamondback at the Hanged Man tonight. You in?"

"There's another society party to attend," Hawke thinks of all the old Amell family ties that are eager to get back into their good graces again. Now that her father is gone most of Kirkwall thinks the Amells have no more ties to magic. They're worthwhile again. Normally she'd fight it out with her mother but what's the use. It makes her mother happy and her mother has been lonely for company. "I'd rather not go to the party… Who will be playing?"

"I'm not telling. You're just trying to find an excuse to be antisocial again."

"Varric…"

"All right, all right… Blondie, Daisy, Elf. Aveline might make an appearance, and don't forget the lovely Rivaini."

"How could I? Can Isabela turn down coins, cards and alcohol?"

"Who'd want to?"

Hawke laughs. "Good point." She looks around the warehouse, the men moving crates to the wharf and packing up the other contents. "Are you sure these men can be trusted?"

"You doubt me?"

"Never! Except about three seconds ago. Either way, I think I'll stay here and keep an eye on the situation. Nice move, by the way, holding a card game and inviting Aveline. If the city guard found this it'd be a nightmare for you and Isabela. And if Aveline knew that I knew…"

"You walk a fine line, Hawke. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the gesture. But are you sure you're not volunteering so you can avoid some awkward situations at the card game? Or you know. Talking?"

"Whatever can you possibly mean?" She smiles faintly, her arms crossed as she supervises the men work. "To tell you the truth, Varric… I've never known how to be honest. My parents raised me well and with values… but I was never to reveal too much, I've always had to be guarded. I don't  _know_ how to stop being the way I am. Old habits die hard." Always waiting for the shoe to drop, always waiting for the next disaster. It's exhausting.

"No shit? Baring your heart to me like this is enough to fluster even the most hardened of dwarves. Sounds to me like you're lonely. Maybe I should forget my rule about not dating humans."

He looks up at her but she isn't smiling. Her eyes are faraway. He wonders if she heard him at all.

* * *

Isabela is midway through her fifth pint when Varric pulls her aside. He brings his cards with him and Isabela takes the opportunity to sneak a peek at them. Balls. Folding it is. And she'd been so sure she was going to clean Aveline out for the night. She looks back to the table and at the stern woman whose jaw is clenched tightly—or maybe that's just how she looks naturally.

"My room is right up the stairs," she says with a grin, "but if the matter is pressing you can take me right here."

"You're as bad as Hawke," Varric says. Isabela's forehead scrunches. That wasn't a one-time flirtation, then? The saucy wench. "Speaking of which," he continues, "I invited her to cards tonight but she insisted on staying at the warehouse to…overlook things."

"You do realize that's Hawke-talk for 'I don't want to be anywhere near you'. Well, I'm sure it's not you she has a problem with." She looks to the table, Merrill is giggling at something that Anders has said. Fenris is muttering something to Aveline. "She's  _so_ good at alienating people." She scratches at her arm, the red cloth still circled around. "My beer is getting cold. Was there a point in all of this or are you just doting on Hawke the way you do on everyone else?"

"Dote!" He frowns but Isabela detects a reddening in his cheeks, "I do no such thing!" He hurries on before she can point out his acts of kindness on Fenris', Anders' and Merrill's behalf. "Let me appeal to your love of coin. On the off-chance that Hawke  _did_ decide to go to another society party, will you take a look and see that everything is… cleared out?" He mutters the next, "I can 'lose' some coin to Aveline for the next while to keep her distracted—she's itching to leave."

"So you're sending me away when Aveline's going? You really know how to let a girl down." She curls her fingers into a fist and taps him gently beneath the chin. "But I can't say no to you." She returns to the table and drinks the rest of her beer before throwing down her cards. "I'm done for the night."

"Off to the Blooming Rose?" Aveline asks, her voice ripe with condescension.

"Oh, Aveline. Will you never find new material? Good luck winning coin, Big Girl. You might stand a chance now that I'm no longer in the running. You two," she points to Anders and Fenris, " _Behave._ And you," she looks at Merrill, "don't forget your twine. I don't want you falling into the harbor again, Kitten." She gives Fenris a warning look when he starts to open his mouth. "All right, that's it." She throws her hands up and leaves.

This is her favorite kind of night, warm and bright with radiant stars. It would only be better if she were on her ship—there's nothing like a night out on the water: the ship rocking to the gentle sway of the sea, the crisp smell of salt sea, the flicking of water on her face, a breeze tugging at her hair and, if she is in the mood, a dance on deck while some of the more talented crew members, the Antivans or Rivains—never the Fereldens, play a tune worth moving to.

She reminisces about her ship, regrets its loss and loses herself in memories of it. The itchy, prickling fear of Castillon getting a hold of her before she finds the damn Tome of Koslun strikes her again. No. It will be fine. She'll get a hold of it. Somehow.

She's at the docks before she knows it, walking past the various warehouses and the lovers in the alleys, buried in each other. She listens to them and to all the other sounds there are to be heard. She's attentive to every shift in movement. There isn't anything worth paying attention to—if it isn't going to literally stab her in the back, she doesn't care.

She's at the warehouse moments later. She surveys the area—no city guard—outside anyway… She goes around back and takes the hidden entryway. Torches burn weakly in holders on the walls, creating a honeyed ambiance throughout the building that typically feels cold and homely. There's no one in sight—and all the merchandise has been moved. So far, so good.

She walks to the small wharf and slows when she sees a body. She reflexively grabs her daggers, eyes narrowing and moves closer. She sees bare feet half buried in the sand, followed by a red sash and then Hawke's face. Isabela kneels soundlessly beside her. She's only a little worried. Hawke's chest lowers and rises slowly. The idiot fell asleep.

A hint of a smile touches Isabela's lips. Hawke's eyelashes are long and dark. Even when she sleeps she looks troubled. Isabela wonders how it burned to get that scar on her face. Why didn't she heal it? Why didn't anyone? She traces her thumb along Hawke's eyebrow. Hawke's eyes open and focus on her. With a small, tired sound she sits up. "What are you doing here?" Hawke asks.

"Checking on the oh-so-vigilant Hawke," Isabela says with a roll of her eyes, taking a seat on the sand beside her. "Varric wasn't sure if you'd be true to your word. So did you actually make sure that everything got out okay or did you just nap?"

"I didn't  _have_  to do anything."

"From what I hear, you offered. So…"

"Everything's fine. Everything's been moved."

"Why were you sleeping here? Forget about your estate?"

"There was another party. I didn't feel like going. I was just…thinking. Mother goes out of her way to introduce me to all the society men." She sighs. "Some of them are nice enough…but I don't want her making those decisions for me."

"Besides, it hurts to smile for the duration of a party when you're so out of practice." Isabela suggests. Hawke offers a barely there smile in response. "So you're tired of meeting all these men of hers," she says with a grin, "why not tell her to back off?"

"It's not so easy. She gets invested in these things. Father, Carver and Bethany are gone. It's all up to me now." She runs her fingers through her loose hair. "She wants to be a grandmother. She wants someone to take care of me."

Isabela wonders what it must be like to disappoint a mother, to care whether you might disappoint a mother, to have a mother to care enough to find a suitable man for you, a good man for you, someone that will properly care for her daughter. She says: "There's no reason you can't put them through the paces. Do you take many suitors to that large bed of yours?" Hawke laughs softly. That isn't a response. Not from Hawke it isn't. "Would it kill you to join a card game, by the way? I think you hurt Varric's feelings."

"I don't need coin anymore."

"You really know how to miss a point." But does she? Isabela wonders if Hawke can really be so stupid. She knows to be shrewd when making business deals, always extolling the most coin she can, she's solved impossible situations through deviousness and only violence when necessary.

Hawke wiggles her toes in the sand, small waves of water rippling over her feet. There isn't as much light here. Isabela wishes there was a boat or a ship. The one that moved the cargo couldn't have been very big, nothing compared to the Siren's Call, anyway. Blast, she misses that ship. If she had one she could take it and go, go somewhere far away where she wouldn't have to worry about the bloody relic or Castillon. There's nothing keeping her in Kirkwall. Besides the obvious, besides her fearless and 'unstoppable' leader, the only one she can think that might be able to stand up to him. She looks at her arm when Hawke undoes the fabric there. "You want it back?" Isabela asks. Hawke lets the fabric fall to the sand, "I like how it looks."

"No scarring."

"That isn't what I meant." Does Hawke ever understand anything? Isabela's convinced Hawke only likes to argue with her. "Do you not go to the Hanged Man because we've outlived our usefulness?" Hawke looks at her questioningly. "You wanted to buy an estate. You did. The rest of us aren't finished with our business yet."

"I can be normal now. I could probably marry, if I wanted to. My family has coin again and… there's nothing persecuting me. I don't have to shame mother. Not that she was ever that way. But others looked down on her because of Father… they would because of me. I don't need to whore out my magic anymore. I could hide it, always."

"If you're hiding something you're lying. You aren't being yourself."

Hakwe continues as if she hadn't heard. "But if I had a child, it'd likely have magic. She never thinks of that. Maybe it wouldn't matter to her but things would be difficult for her again."

"Why are you talking about children? Is that what you fell asleep thinking about?" Isabela's agitated. Hawke wraps the red ribbon around Isabela's arm again. Isabela waits until she's finished and slips her boots off, standing and walking into the water. It's temperate and covers her ankles. She can see the reflection of the moon in the water in the distance. She glances back at Hawke who rests her weight on her elbows, watching her. "Join me for a swim. What person in their right mind can resist a moonlight swim?"

"I can."

"I said in their right mind." Isabela leaves the water, takes a few steps, flicking dark, wet sand everywhere and leans down, taking Hawke's arms and pulling her to her feet. Their bodies press together briefly. Isabela smiles and pulls the red sash from Hawke's waist. It flutters to the ground. She pushes the jacket from Hawke's shoulders. "You're always so serious. What have you got against smiling?" Her hands stay on Hawke's shoulders. She wears a thin off-white shirt beneath the jacket, the material is translucent. Isabela can only imagine what it would do if it were wet. She tugs Hawke's arms. The sand makes their steps unsteady and Isabela uses it to her advantage, tugging on Hawke's arms before shoving her into the water. Hawke flails and then disappears beneath the water with a splash. Isabela laughs and slips under the water. The temperature soothes her. She’s missedswimming. The water at the docks is dirty with drunks pissing and vomiting over the sides of the ships. This water is clear and fresh. She surfaces, laughing. Hawke scowls comically. The shirt she wears is comely, clinging to her in all the ways that Isabela hoped. Who needs an imagination? "Varric told me he fancies you."

The stupid anger slips from Hawke, the indignation and self-consciousness gone. "Really?"

"No. But he doesn't have to  _say_  it."

"What?"

Isabela laughs and wades on her back to Hawke who waits impatiently. Isabela stands right up again. "You'll believe anything, won't you?"

"I won't believe you for a minute."

"You did just now."

"I didn't." She sighs as if with exhaustion. "If Varric really wanted to give himself to me he would have long ago. The man is impossible to woo."

"So set your sights on the more…attainable."

"You're coming on to me again."

"You want me to." she says, grabbing a handful of Hawke's shirt and pulling her closer. "Even if you're so unresponsive. You live too much up here," she taps Hawke's forehead with her finger, "and not enough…" her hand trails down, past Hawke's heart, grazing her breast beneath the thin shirt and slipping beneath the water, between her legs. Isabela chuckles. She needs no light to tell her the obvious: Hawke hasn't pulled away. "Let's skip the duel and get to the fun part. The other fun part. Fun part!" she laughs, pleased. "Tell me a joke."

"A joke?"

Isabela delights in Hawke's voice, edging on breathless. "Tell me anything."

"You want to talk?"

"I want to hear your voice. The way it is now." She shifts her hand. Hawke takes another unsteady breath. "I didn't come here intending to seduce you but we're both here so why not? You'd never ask." She leans up and kisses her earlobe. "And with the moonlight and the sand and the water… you understand." She only gets Hawke's breath in response. Isabela locks eyes with her, smiles, guides her back, until they're out of the water, until they're on the sand. The color of Hawke's eyes, even in the darkness, is startlingly bright. Isabela rips the shirt from Hawke, pushes her down so she sits on her jacket. Isabela straddles her.

"Aren't we going swimming?" Hawke asks. Isabela scowls at her. "You wanted a joke."

Isabela laughs. "Right now I want you to take my clothes off." Hawke complies. She takes her time. Isabela knows when she's being teased, Hawke's hands explore deliberately, her touch never slipping despite how slick their skin is. Isabela touches scars that she's never seen before, traces over the marks, some raised, others findable only by sight. Isabela lays Hawke down. She likes the way the sand sticks to Hawke's damp skin, likes the way she can cut Hawke's words off with a glance, with a graze. Isabela thinks it must only be her imagination, the way the torches flare, shooting higher, brightly illuminating the more heatedly that Hawke kisses her. Isabela doesn't know how she's sweating by the end of it, can't figure if it's that or the ocean water that she tastes on Hawke's lips.

Yes. This is so much better than conversation and talk of children.

* * *

Hawke pulls her into a Lowtown alley. Her lips are on Isabela's mouth before she can talk, before she can ask. Isabela is surprised by Hawke's enthusiasm but she won't complain. This Hawke is a lot more fun than that protesting, uptight thing she's known for the majority of four years. Isabela breaks the kiss with a chuckle, holding Hawke's face. "You just had me minutes ago. For over an hour. Can't you wait until we get back to my room?"

"Do you want me to?"

"I thought we were going to take a bath." Ah, sex on the sand is a lovely novelty. But sand is so tenacious in getting just about everywhere. "Are you trying to make up for the lost years?" Her words fade. Hawke's willful fingers, expose Isabela's neck. Hawke laces kisses along it. Isabela hisses softly. She could get used to this. A little sand won't hurt anything. She kisses Hawke, guides Hawke's hand to her body, another sigh loosed when Hawke abides. A current, live and thrilling makes Isabela's legs go weak.

Hawke slides a knee between Isabela's thighs. Her kiss is insistent, unleashing something long repressed. Isabela knows her lips are going to bruise but that's no reason to stop any of the present fervor.

* * *

Isabela stretches her arms over her head when she sees the first sign of the rising sun, shooting rays of light past the streaked bedroom window. She's getting tired at long last. She looks to the bathroom door as Hawke steps out, dressed again, her hair loosely tied. Isabela smirks. Hawke returns it with a faint smile. She sits on a chest at the foot of Isabela's bed and pulls her boots on.

"You were quite the tiger tonight, Hawke," Isabela watches her pull the boots on, adjust her pants so that they look proper. "Maybe the idea of monogamy and being chained down for the rest of your life makes you want to fuck like an animal. Can't say that I blame you."

"Maybe it's just you."

Hawke's tone is unreadable. Isabela can't tell if it's a joke or not. Can't tell what she means by it. She doesn't want to know. The night was good, long and arduous, testing both their physical and creative limits. They did well. "So you do find me irresistible."

Hawke collects her bracelets on Isabela's nightstand, by the flickering candle. She slips them onto her wrist. "Maybe," she says.

Hawke's answers are usually noncommittal. She takes a hard line against everyone but Isabela, it seems. Fine by her. Isabela sits up, sliding to the edge of the bed, unabashedly naked. Hawke has her back to her. Isabela pulls the red sash to get her attention. Hawke looks at her. "Let's do this again."

Hawke's smile is a slow discovery, fully developed before she leans down and brushes her lips over Isabela's. "I'd like that."

It's only after Hawke is gone that the gesture strikes her as strange. A gentle kiss following a night of depravity? A goodbye kiss. Is that what that was? No use in overthinking it. But…she hasn't gotten one of those since Zevran. Hawke is  _not_ Zevran. She doesn't want to think about him.

Hawke returns that night and the night after that and the night after that.

It's easy. It's uncomplicated. It's fun.

* * *

Hawke sits in the library with Anders' manifesto. No matter how many times she reads it she can't understand the fanaticism behind his claims. Would her father like Anders? Would Bethany? He goes too far. Or maybe he's braver than Hawke is. Is she really a castrated mage like he claims? She doesn't hate herself. She doesn't.

Leandra clears her throat. Hawke looks at her, startled. Leandra has a feather duster in her hand. How long has her mother been here? Hawke wonders if she looks as clueless as she feels. Leandra begins. "What do you do with your time?" Hawke lifts the manifesto tentatively. "You've missed the last several parties. And you need friends."

Hawke doesn't know which accusation to respond to first. "I've plenty of friends, Mother." Hawke says. Leandra looks at her, waiting, worried. "Why, there's Varric and…" she struggles to remember. "And Aveline. Dear Aveline. She's so…good." She thinks of Isabela, how she had her pinned to a wall only hours ago. How the stud beneath her lip had trailed along her neck. Hawke's fingers lift at the memory. No. Isabela isn't a friend. She's… something else.

"Your face is red." Leandra says. Hawke apologizes and focuses on the manifesto. There's a long section on the implications of the word 'apostate'. "Are your friends the ones that keep you out until all hours of the night?"

"Yes?"

Leandra sighs. "You're a bad liar." Hawke doesn't think that's true. "You make me worry so much about you." Hawke apologizes again. "Haven't you liked any of those men you've met?" She scrutinizes Hawke and then says more carefully—"or any of the women?"

"Mother, please," Hawke stands and sets the manifesto face down on the desk.

"I'd already given birth to you when I was your age," Leandra says. Hawke frowns. She runs a hand carelessly through her hair. "I had your father. You know, no matter the difficulties, it was worth it. He was worth it. He took such good care of me. Of all of us." She doesn't notice Hawke flinch. "He loved me so much. I just want someone like that for you. There's no reason you can't have it. We have our name back—"

"I'm a Hawke, Mother," she warns. "To the Void with the bloody Amells, They never gave a damn about Father or Bethany or Carver or me. I don't care about any of that or them." In the end they hadn't even received the home—she'd had to buy it back. Her tone is sharp. Too sharp. Her mother looks as if she's been scolded. Hawke curses herself. She bites her tongue as if to remedy her mistake of moments ago. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean… You can be proud of the Hawkes too, Mother. That's all I meant."

"I know that, Viktoria."

"I don't want you to be ashamed of us."

"I'm not!" Leandra's features twist in hurt. Hawke stares at a bookshelf. "I want someone to take care of you. You're still my baby. You're the only one I have left. If something ever happens to me—"

"Don't say that!" Hawke looks at her, panicked. Her father, her brother, her sister—would she have to lose her mother, too? "Maker, don't tempt fate! I would die."

"No you wouldn't." Leandra says gently. She goes to her. "I know the burden you've carried for many years. You should be able to set some of that weight aside. I want someone to help you shoulder it." Hawke flicks her eyes away. "I know how you are. I know how strong you want to be. I know you think that you don't need anyone. But everyone needs somebody. There are people that would have you. You're beautiful and good. You could stand to smile more." Hawke smiles weakly. "You can't be angry at me for wanting someone for you."

"I don't like these kinds of talks, Mother."

"All right. I'll let it go. For now." Leandra shakes her head gently. She hands the feather duster to Hawke. "If you don't want to talk can you start dusting around here? Ah, I'm tired of it. My legs could use a rest."

Hawke smiles, reminded of how things used to be in the past, relieved that the conversation is done with. "All right, rest your legs. I'll take over from here."

"Thank you," she kisses Hawke's cheek and exits the library.

Hawke wonders if her mother will remarry, if she would be as supportive of her mother as her mother has been of her.

* * *

"Where have you been?" Merrill asks. "You haven't been coming to our card games. I haven't lost any coin but Varric has been grumpy. You know the way he puts his face like he's been hit and shakes his head all slow, muttering under his breath…" Isabela sips her beer slowly, her eyes drifting lazily over the patrons of the Hanged Man. "It isn't as much fun without you."

"So sorry about that, Kitten." No, she hasn't been to card games in a while. She's spent a good deal of the days sleeping, nights drinking and in bed (or various other surfaces) with Hawke. The card games with Merrill, Varric and the others are fun—but not as much fun as the brooding apostate.

They don't talk much. They don't have to. Talk is overrated.

It's comfortable.

Hawke has a gentle sort of ferocity.

She smiles. At Isabela's jokes. At her.

Hawke walks in, walks around the patrons without stopping and goes upstairs. Merrill is saying something. Isabela doesn't know what. She sees the particular crease in Merrill's forehead, the way it appears when she's flummoxed. She thinks of the crease in Hawke's forehead that lessens by the night. Isabela thinks that she could tell Merrill. That's no big deal. She'd told her before. But Isabela doesn't want to hear it, about how bad Hawke is or how Isabela could do better. Who cares if she can? Who cares about better? What matters is now, what matters are the jollies and the kicks.

"I have a headache," she tells Merrill several minutes later. She stands. "Use the twine," she instructs. "Or get Varric to walk you home." She leans across the table and presses a kiss to Merrill's brow. Maybe she feels guilty about lying. Merrill stammers words of understanding, wishes her a quick recovery. Isabela ignores the catcalls from drunk, leering men, foregoing the usual slamming them into tables and walls. She climbs the stairs. Hawke is waiting in her room. Isabela shuts the door. "Merrill thinks I'm a poor friend."

"Who cares what she thinks?" Hawke allows a beat after Isabela's look. "I'm missing another party. Mother thinks I'm a lost cause."

"When really you're just a slattern."

Hawke smiles. "You're happy to use that on someone else, aren't you?"

"I only wish Aveline could hear me say it."

"Eager to tell her what a depraved woman I am?"

Isabela laughs. "Eager to tell her I'm not the only one."

"But then she'll know my terrible secret."

"She already knows you're an apostate." Isabela says. Hawke's smile twitches, disappearing before returning weakly. Isabela thinks that she shouldn't have mentioned it. Hawke gets wrapped up in the strangest things. Then she wonders if the terrible secret is the licentious sex or Isabela herself. "Who cares what she thinks?" she mocks lightly. The smile returns to Hawke's lips. Isabela kisses them.

"How long has it been?"

Only hours. She says: "Too long." Why can't they do this during the day? What else does Hawke have to do? What does Hawke do during the day? Should she know? Should she care? Does Hawke go to tea parties? Does she go shopping at boutiques? "Why don't you visit in the day?" she asks between kisses. Her corset falls to the floor. Her hands slip under Hawke's clothes.

"Because I'm resting up from this," Hawke says with a small laugh.

"Really?"

"And," she adds this grudgingly, "I'm spending time with Mother." She stops, looks at Isabela curiously. "Are you teasing me?"

Isabela wonders if Hawke is perplexed because her mother has intruded into their moment or because Isabela is asking questions about her. Isabela knows how Hawke hates to divulge details about her private life because she hates to do the same. Sex is something else. Sex is nothing and open to airing. Except, evidently, in this instance.

Isabela laughs, running her fingers through Hawke's hair, pulling her near for another kiss. "Yes. I'm teasing."

Hawke grins. She presses a kiss to the palm of Isabela's hand. Isabela throws her back onto the bed.

* * *

"There's a letter for you," her mother says, "on the desk."

Hawke walks to the writing desk. She expects it's another letter of thanks from someone she doesn't remember. She's received those letters intermittently throughout the years. This one is different. The envelope is a creamy beige color and soft to the touch. It bears the seal of the viscount.

Hawke picks up the envelope. It's heavy. It feels heavy. Dread fills her. What could Viscount Dumar want? Is it Saemus again? She sets the envelope down carefully without opening it, shifting it on the writing desk and returning it to its precise position before she'd picked it up.

She knows that people have been talking about the Qunari and the city guard and the templars. The Viscount is a spineless man incapable of solving his own problems. Her mother asks what the letter is. "It's nothing," Hawke says. She backs away from it.

She's struck by the sudden, urgent desire to see Isabela. She reflects on it, smothering the wish until the panic subsides. Varric. She should want to see Varric. He's her best friend. She will see Varric… but she wants to see Isabela.

* * *

* * *

 

A/N: Thanks for all the love guys! There's another chapter after this and then I think a smutty short that wasn't in the original version, was later added... do we keep the smutty section or skip forward? 


	8. Chapter 8

Aveline is irrationally angry that a week has passed since Hawke received the letter from the Viscount. She points sharply to the bowl of oatmeal Hawke eats and wordlessly orders Hawke to follow her to her office. She does. Aveline shuts the door with gravity. Hawke eats the oatmeal soberly while Aveline holds her spoon much like she does her sword. Hawke wonders if Aveline intends to use it on her.

"You can't delay on this much further, Hawke." Aveline sets her bowl of oatmeal down on the desk as if the situation is too dire for her to even think of eating. "You have to see the Viscount. He has requested your presence. He is not even a minute's walk from this office."

Hawke lifts a spoonful of the gray oatmeal. She's become accustomed to eating finer foods but this small meal with Aveline, despite the unwelcome topic, is welcome and makes her nostalgic. The bloody Viscount. Just when everything was settling down. "So what if he wants to see me? I have no responsibility to him."

"You have a responsibility to Kirkwall."

Hawke crinkles her nose. How is that possibly true? "Why? Why can't the guard or the templars do this? Isn't that their duty? I was a petty criminal years ago and now only relevant because of my noble status. Just let me be a useless noble like all the others. I'm Viktoria Hawke, nothing more."

"If you're the only one who can stop a bloodbath with the Arishok…"

"What bloodbath?" How dramatic.

"You can't be blind to the tensions between the chantry and the path of the qun."

"What of it?" The two philosophies are bound to disagree. Just as the chantry will always be opposed to mages. It's how it's always been; it's how it will continue to be. No one is asking her to step in for the mages, are they?

"If the Viscount wants to see you, Hawke, you will see him."

"Why does it have to be me? I thought I was done with all of this."

"You thought wrong. Don't be so bloody selfish. If lives depend on this, you need to see it through. Don't worry. I won't let you face whatever it is alone."

Hawke is unsatisfied. She eats the rest of the oatmeal sullenly and returns the bowl to the mess hall. She leaves the Keep without speaking to the Viscount. Aveline's eyes burn angrily into her back. It can't be that important if he sent only a letter and no guards to get her. Aveline's worrying over nothing.

Hawke doesn't dare to glance back.

* * *

Hawke has given her an ugly hat every day for the last week. Or maybe she isn't giving them to her. They're not quite gifts, there's no ceremony. She carries fine boxes of various heights, widths, shapes, with different colored bows into her room, says 'here' in a distracted way before kissing her. She never takes them back. She never asks that Isabela try them on. She never asks if Isabela likes them.

So now Isabela has a pile of seven ugly hats on the floor, stacked just so. She wonders if Hawke would be offended if she returned them for the coin. There are only so many feathers a woman can wear atop of her head before she looks ridiculous.

She won't mention it now. What's the use in talking about hats? She tilts her head back, Hawke kisses along the curve of her jaw, runs her tongue along her neck. The room is warm but she likes the heat of Hawke's naked skin pressed to hers. Isabela finds Hawke's mouth. They kiss with languid intensity. Isabela wraps around her, pulls her closer, emits a hot gasp.

Hawke's hair is over her eyes. Isabela pushes it back from her forehead but can't see her eyes. Hawke's dipped her face into the crook of her neck again. Isabela can see them from the corner of her eye: that stack of ugly hats. She catches Hawke's eyes for an instant. They're somewhat shadowed. She wonders if Hawke hasn't been resting. Maybe she lies awake at night trying desperately to find that perfect hat. As far as Isabela's concerned, if this is the end result, Hawke can keep bringing her all the ugly hats that she wants.

* * *

"What do you mean I should see him?" Hawke's stomach plummets. Varric smiles glibly despite her desperation. He pours her another beer with an encouraging smile. "Of all things to agree with Aveline… I'm disappointed in you, Varric. I thought you were a scoundrel—damn the man and all that—not a law abiding citizen of Kirkwall."

"Who cares about the Viscount?" He grins. "I smell trouble in this, Hawke. What better way for your legend to grow? It could be nothing," he acknowledges, "but if it isn't—and I'm betting it isn't—soon all of Kirkwall, all of Thedas could know your name."

"I'm an  _apostate_ , _"_ she says under her breath, "I don't want anybody to know my bloody name if I can help it. Isn't the Viscount under the Knight-Commander's thumb? What if she doesn't like what he's asking me to do? I don't want her focusing her attention on me." She just wants to take care of her mother and nothing more.

"One thing at a time, Hawke. First, finish your beer. If you need some liquid courage…"

"I will  _not_ go see the Viscount when I've been drinking." She takes a drink and notices Isabela take a seat beside her. A person could sit in the space between them but she hopes that no one does. She looks at Isabela but doesn't say anything.

Varric pours Isabela a beer. "What's your opinion on all of this, Rivaini?"

"On all of what?" she asks. "Ooh. Is there…gossip? What is it?" She reaches for the glass Varric has readied for her, arm brushing along Hawke's shoulder that remains on the tense side. "Did Aveline get caught with her britches down somewhere? Has my friend-fiction with her and Donnic come to pass?"

Varric laughs. "Nothing quite so exhilarating. The Viscount sent word to Hawke requesting her presence—what, two weeks ago?" Hawke frowns in response, "and she's somewhat reluctant to go."

"Two weeks ago, hm?" Isabela looks at Hawke who meets her eyes for only a moment before taking a drink of beer. No, she hadn't told Isabela. They don't talk about things. Not real things, certainly. Isabela's room is a sanctuary, some other world where all the unpleasant things don't touch, can't enter. She wishes that Varric had not brought it up. "Well then, why should she go? You know he has some awful task for you," she tells Hawke, "and you're no charity."

"I'm not so sure," Hawke says but she knows that she's only arguing with Isabela for the sake of arguing with her. She prefers Isabela's response best. She's overthinking it. Maybe it's just like Varric says. There is the possibility that it could be nothing. It has been two weeks. She's received another letter which she hasn't opened. She knows that her father would be disappointed in her for avoiding her responsibilities. Carver would call her a coward. She rubs her forehead tenderly. "I'll go see him. It's likely nothing." She knows that's a lie. She finishes her drink and stands. "I need some air."

Isabela watches her stand. "Nervous, Hawke?"

"You have to ask?" Varric grins, "she's been on edge for weeks."

"Not always," Hawke defends. She can't meet Isabela's eyes. She's embarrassed. "I'll see you later," she says to the two of them.

Isabela catches Hawke's wrist when Varric turns his head away. "Later?"

"Later." Hawke agrees. But she's only mouthed the word. Isabela nods and releases her. Hawke steps outside of the Hanged Man full of trepidation. She's restless. The only time she has been able to get a rest from her thoughts is when she's been with Isabela but that leaves her no less exhausted after the fact.

She'll take a walk around Lowtown, around the Docks and then she'll go and see Viscount Dumar. She's wasted too much time avoiding the matter as it is. Whatever it is that he wants, she can always say no.

* * *

 

She can't say no. She consoles herself with the thought that she can go meet with the Arishok at her own leisure. One meeting won't kill her. Theoretically. Dougal is the most urgent, immediate matter. She could strangle Bodahn for having left her mother alone in the estate with Dougal. She runs home and arrives minutes later glazed in cold sweat. Dougal is with her mother. Leandra is worried but she leaves them. That's what's important, that her mother has gotten away.

Dougal talks.

His first and last mistake is suggesting that he will hurt her mother. Hawke marks him for death before the end of the conversation. She lets him leave the house alive because she doesn't want her mother to see blood on the carpet, nor does she want her mother to know that her daughter's a killer.

She will never let any harm befall her mother, not for her mistakes. To think that all this time she was worried about the Viscount's stupid letter. How self-centered she was. She's still lost in her thoughts, barely having left the room when Aveline approaches her in the den of the home, wanting help with the templar Emeric and the murders that have occurred throughout the years. Can no one in Kirkwall handle their own bloody difficulties? Why does everyone want something after years of silence?

She agrees to help Aveline. She'll get to it, eventually. The important matter is Dougal. Not some blighted embarrassment to the city guard. It's her mother's life at stake.

* * *

 

It's night in Lowtown.

The figures are cutouts against the brightness of the moon. One silhoutte is tall, slender and feminine: Isabela recognizes her instantly even if she can't see her face. The other is short and stout. At first she thinks it's Varric. She thinks that until she hears that recognizable sound of steel forced through flesh, followed by gurgling.

Isabela races ahead to their side. She recognizes the dwarf. Dougal, isn't it? His eyes are wide, his fingers wrapped tightly around his neck. Blood squeezes out, running over his fingers, spilling trails onto his arms.

Isabela glances at Hawke's face: it's empty of remorse or sympathy. Hawke wipes the blood off the dagger on her cloak. Isabela recognizes it as the very knife that she used on Carver in the Deep Roads. Hawke sheathes it.

Isabela waits for her to walk away from Dougal but she doesn't. She stands, watches him struggle, drown in his own blood, convulsing on the floor before he goes still. Isabela doesn't move. Hawke is a statue, her head bowed down to look at his frame.

A minute later she stoops beside him and begins to drag his body. He's small but heavy. Hawke strains with his weight but she's strong. They aren't far from the water. Isabela walks alongside of her, keeping an eye out any possible interlopers. No one comes, no one that pays attention. Hawke rolls his body off the pier. He falls into the water with a splash.

"He'll come up," Isabela warns. Bodies don't always stay where you put them. You have to weigh them down with stones or bury them deep.

"No one will care about a dead cartel dwarf," Hawke says dispassionately. "He had enemies."

Isabela waits. As far as she knows, Hawke hasn't killed anyone in years. Dougal has always been out to make coin but so has she, so has Varric. Speaking of… "Varric said he'd be trouble years ago."

"He threatened my mother. For coin." Her expression is filled with disgust. "The stupid bastard."

Is that the reason she hasn't seen Hawke in days? Aveline had said as much, implying that Hawke had been holed up in the estate. It makes sense that she wouldn't leave Leandra's side if Dougal had made threats against her. "You killed for your mother?"

"I've killed for coin and principle. Of course I would kill for my mother. Is that so strange?"

Yes. She obviously hasn't had the right kind of mother. It shouldn't strike her as strange that someone should care for their mother. Merrill hasn't seen hers in ages. Aveline doesn't have one. Fenris remembers little of his past and who knows about Anders. They're all motherless in their own way, except for Hawke. "No, that isn't strange," she says quietly. Hawke looks at her. Isabela brushes the hair back from Hawke's face. Steady panic drains from her eyes by the moment. Isabela wonders if it's because Dougal is dead or because she's looking at her. She dismisses the latter. "Leandra's safe now." Hawke's smile is strained but relieved. Isabela allows a beat and lets her hand fall back to her side. "I haven't seen you for days."

"I've been plotting murder."

Isabela likes that Hawke can say a cutting, honest thing with a smile. She doesn't know Hawke well enough to know if she's as detached as she appears or if she's putting on a show. "Are you sure it isn't because you didn't have an ugly hat at the ready for me?"

"Ugly hat?" Her face is without expression—then she seems to remember. "They were expensive."

"And you think that means anything? How many birds died for those hats, I wonder?"

"About as many spiders that died for a boot and some poems."

Isabela laughs. "You've got me there," she inclines her head in the direction of the Hanged Man and begins to walk. Hawke gives another look to the direction where she left Dougal and follows beside her. "You don't have to bring hats to see me. You can come of your own accord. Or my accord, I don't mind," she says with a smile. Hawke returns it. "Did you see the Viscount?"

"Yes, I did."

Isabela waits but Hawke says nothing further on the matter. The mere mention has agitated her. Whatever the Viscount wants, it has nothing to do with her. Isabela leaves it alone. They're at the Hanged Man minutes later, engaged in conversations about hats. Hawke makes jokes. The anxiety that Isabela had detected for the past several weeks has eased and Isabela is cheered by it.

Merrill rounds the corner of the stairs when they reach the top. Isabela can't decide if Merrill's chipper expression, brutally stricken at seeing Hawke is more amusing than the way that Hawke freezes, her eyes turning to the floor at spotting Merrill. "Kitten," Isabela takes the final step to the top, leaving Hawke one step below, "were you visiting?"

"I was trying to but you weren't in your room although I checked several times." Merrill sends a furtive look to Hawke. Then looks more closely. "You have blood on your hands, Hawke." Hawke looks at her hands and then at Merrill. Merrill looks away from her to Isabela. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes." Hawke says curtly. She takes a step up, her eyes indifferently on Merrill. "I was going to see Varric."

Isabela looks at her. She doesn't know whether to be irritated at Merrill for intruding or Hawke for running away at the sight of Merrill. She'll mock her about it later. First: "You promised you'd pick up that thing. The thing that you… need to pick up," Isabela says. She glances at Merrill who looks between the two of them skeptically. A more reasonable excuse presents itself. "You should wash your hands before anyone sees you and thinks you've committed some terrible crime." She goes to the room. Merrill starts to follow but Isabela stalls her with a lift of her hand, "just one moment, Kitten. You know how Hawke is."

Merrill's brow knots. Isabela follows Hawke into the room. She goes to the washroom and runs her hands under water. Isabela watches from the doorway. "Why are you so secretive?" Why not tell her about Dougal or that she'd seen the Viscount? Why hide the stupid Viscount thing for weeks? Oh, it doesn't matter. They screw, nothing more. What's actually pressing is this matter of running around like they're children. Isabela watches rivers of pale red water run down the sink. "No one cares if we're screwing."

"Then tell Merrill we're screwing."

"You think I won't?"

"Why is it anybody's business?"

"Why is it a secret?" Isabela asks. Hawke picks up a small cloth and wipes her hands clean. Isabela's annoyed that what had been a promising start to an evening has turned into an argument. If they hadn't seen Merrill they both could have pretended that they weren't hiding anything. As it is, Isabela hasn't gone to see her at her Hightown mansion and Hawke hasn't invited her. It's fine. Isabela doesn't like Hightown anyway. But is that the point? The point is that Hawke needs to loosen up more.

"It isn't a secret." When her hands are dry she folds the towel neatly and places it on the edge of the battered sink with the rust knobs and faucet. "Look—sometimes I just want to be alone with you."

Isabela feels queasy.

Hawke turns her head in her direction. Isabela turns it in another. "I'm really tired." Hawke says after several seconds of silence. She brushes past Isabela.

Isabela lets her go. When she returns to the hallway she sees Hawke exiting the Hanged Man. No doubt going back to the mansion. Balls, Merrill. Merrill is blithe and in much better spirits now that Hawke is gone. "I thought she was going to see Varric?"

"She must have forgotten. You know how absent minded Hawke can be."

"Really? I never got that impression… I thought the two of you were planning something…" she shakes her head as if it's all forgotten, none of it matters either way. "Can I try one of your ugly hats on?" Merrill asks, entering the room unbidden and opening a box.

"You can try them all on, Kitten." She claps, smiles and makes all the right jokes but wishes, just this once, that it was Hawke who had stayed and not Merrill. Isabela wonders if she should have said something to Hawke. But what exactly was it that she was supposed to have said? It's her fault for being so uptight, anyway.

* * *

 

Hawke is happy to be out of the Fade. It's too much like existing and not existing in one. That boy Feynriel keeps manifesting in her life and now she's uneasy. He's left the Circle to find mages in Tevinter. Was that the right choice? Merrill is satisfied with the end result. Isabela doesn't care either way. Does Isabela care about anything? Either way, the two of them betrayed her in the Fade. She can't say that either was unexpected. One does sting more than the other.

Hawke sits on Merrill's bed and listens to her. There is no question that Merrill is an idiot. Merrill's also dangerous. She gave herself to a demon, she would have, for the sake of her people. Still, she speaks in mournful, apologetic tones. She and Hawke have never had a good history. Hawke believes that Merrill is repentant. She can't say that it won't happen again. Merrill says it won't but what does her word mean? What does any mage's word mean?

Merrill watches her nervously. It's probably the betrayal in the Fade that keeps her from looking at Hawke in the more direct angry way that she tends to. Hawke stands slowly. "How are you so strong?" Merrill asks. "All of us fell in the Fade. All of us except you."

Aveline didn't. Only Merrill and Isabela. What can she say? That she's better? That she's more moral than Merrill? That her parents raised her right? She could say those things. "I don't know that I'm any stronger than anyone. The demon didn't offer me anything I wanted." If a demon had promised Carver or Bethany, what would she have done? Would she have turned on Aveline and Isabela and Merrill? She doesn't know.

"And if he had?"

"I don't want to find out." She says tersely. "It's like you said: it's easy for a mage to fall. Only it's far more dangerous when we do. We don't wield swords. We wield the elements, more than that, the power of life and death. I won't seek out my desires in the darkness. I know better than to trust a demon. I'm not as foolish as you are."

Merrill's face resumes its usual disdain. "You're impossible to talk to."

"You never listen. You think it will all turn out the way you planned just because you want to believe that it will? Are you so stupid?"

"I'm not stupid!"

"Time will tell which one of us has been the fool. For your sake, I hope that it's me."

"I don't need your concern."

"Then stop leaving me your messes to pick up. I'm not fooled by that sweet, innocent face of yours, Merrill. I never have been. I never will be."

"I wasn't the only one to betray you in the Fade."

The words strike like a slap. She ignores it. "So I should forgive you and forget that it happened?" Hawke asks. As if betrayal sits so easily. Merrill crosses her arms. Hawke bites her tongue. She isn't mad at Merrill. This is more of the usual. This is more of their pattern. Hawke knows that Merrill could  _try_ to kill her. Isabela might be upset, however, when Hawke put her down.

Isabela…

She still hasn't gone to see her. She has a headache. She hasn't been able to sleep in days. It's been weeks since they spent a night together. She wonders if Isabela has missed her or her company. They parted awkwardly the last time they'd seen one another, the night she'd killed Dougal.

"What are you standing around for?" Merrill asks, throwing her hands up. "If you've nothing else to lecture me about, you can go."

Hawke says something that she can't remember moments later and leaves, her mind foggy.

Isabela feels bad. Yes. She wants a ship. Yes, the Siren's Call 2 with a hundred able-bodied lads at her beck and call does sound… _divine._ Still, there is a way to go about these things. Stealing would be good. And it isn't like she hasn't stabbed anyone in the back before. She's stabbed quite a few people in the back, actually… it's just part of the game. But she hadn't meant to do that to Hawke. She hadn't meant to bloody fight her for an imaginary ship. To cut into her, to have Hawke scorch her…

She'd initially wondered if Hawke had taken it personally. Hawke's absence was confirmation enough. When Hawke finally appears, days after the Fade, she forgives and 'forgets'. She jokes and she flirts. But she doesn't quite look at her.

"We're all right?" Isabela asks after Hawke's joined her in her room. The phrasing strikes her as dramatic. What does 'all right' mean for people like them? That they'll continue guilt free fucks without letting things get too serious? That they're not too angry at each other to let that happen? Yes, maybe that.

"I was expecting for you to stab me over that mystery relic of yours, not a ship."

Isabela laughs. She doesn't quite change the subject but wants to. "I'd rather stab you in the back over the ship if that helps things." She smiles but Hawke doesn't. Isabela goes to the stack of hats and pulls one out, a large black hat with a wide brim and flamboyantly bright feathers darting about in every direction. She sets it on her head. Hawke laughs. "You picked it out."

"I thought you were attractive enough to pull anything off. I was wrong."

Isabela shoots her a look but cheerfully joins her on the bed, straddling her. She removes the hat and sets it on Hawke's head. "I'd wager it looks better on me than you." She adjusts the hat back so she can see her face. "Merrill told me the two of you had a chat." Hawke shifts uncomfortably beneath Isabela. Isabela rests her arms on Hawke's shoulders. "You shouldn't be so hard on her. Not harder than you are on me, anyway."

"I'm not sleeping with Merrill. Who cares how I treat her?"

Isabela narrows her eyes. She hates it when she can't tell if Hawke is joking or not. It's true that she makes inappropriate jokes at times but a joke is very different from the hard line she usually draws for Merrill. Isabela wishes that Hawke and Merrill weren't constantly at each others' throats.

"She's a stupid girl," Hawke continues. "I'm not going to apologize for her idiocy."

"She's my friend, Hawke."

"And what am I?"

Isabela tenses. "What do you mean?"

"It means that the two of you stabbed me in the back just the same." She takes the hat off and casts it off to the side, it falls atop of the stack of boxes before falling off to the side and onto the floor. She takes hold of Isabela's arms.

Isabela doesn't move. "I told you I was sorry. How many times do you want me to say it?"

"Not one more time. Sorry. Can we not talk about Merrill? I don't want to argue with you and we're never going to come to an agreement about her."

"If the two of you could learn to get along we might spend more time together." She bites her tongue. "So how are you settling into this new role of Kirkwall's Bitch again?" Isabela brushes a kiss to the frown on Hawke's forehead. Hawke's hands slip away from Isabela's arms. "Why do you continue to do these things? You have the coin, you have your station. You have your big mansion on the hill in Hightown. You can stop now. You don't owe anyone anything."

"It isn't that simple."

"It is. You just don't see it."

"Maybe I was getting bored at home. If I can help people, people who  _really_ need help, then maybe I should. As long as it doesn't draw attention to myself or Mother, it might be okay. Maybe Aveline is right and I've just been selfish."

" _Now_ you're going to do this selfless routine? After you bedded me repeatedly and got me hooked? You're intent on boring me to death. Or annoying me to death. One of the two. I can't stand paragons of virtue." Isabela kisses her. Hawke returns it gingerly. Not bad. But her typical energy isn't there. "Are you angry still?"

"Furious," Hawke says with a half smile. She rubs at her eyes and leans against the backboard of the bed. "Just tired. Very tired. I haven't been sleeping very well."

"Why?" Isabela asks. Hawke shrugs delicately. Is it because she's running around Kirkwall like a chicken with its head cut off? What's the point in helping anyone if it isn't fun and there's nothing in it for her? Hawke always likes to do things the hard way. "Maybe you need to be thoroughly exhausted to the point of collapse."

"Is that your recommendation?"

"Doctor Isabela's orders. I'm not just a captain." She looks at the corner. "I wear many hats." Isabela chuckles and leans forward to catch her lips. Hawke wraps her arms around her. Isabela wonders about the nuances, the differences between grappling in the throes of passion and an embrace.

* * *

 

She returns with a plate of fruit to see Hawke on her side fast asleep, hugging a pillow to her. Isabela sets the plate down on the nightstand beside the bed. She sits on the bed and approaches Hawke carefully, as if she were a sleeping lion. For a minute she only watches her, the rise and fall of her shoulders. She kneels on the bed and peers at her face. Aside from the scar on her face she looks untroubled. Reflex makes Isabela take careful hold of her Hawke's shoulder. She shakes her. "Hawke," she gives her shoulder another gentle tug, "Hawke."

Hawke stirs. "Hm?" Her eyes don't open.

"You fell asleep."

"So?" she holds the pillow more tightly. Isabela stirs her again. She frowns. Hawke's eyes open slowly. She looks around blearily and emits a soft sigh, sitting up stiffly. Isabela wonders what it was that she'd dreamed about, if anything. The world looks to disappoint Hawke. "Oh. Right. Sorry." She yawns and wipes at her eyes, rising unsteadily and collecting her clothing. She fumbles with the clasps and the buttons. At one point her eyes shut again. Isabela takes her hands, slowing her, helping her make sure everything is in place. Hawke thanks her in a thin, quiet voice.

Pinpricks of uneasiness move over Isabela. She can't place the feeling.

Hawke's face is suffused with exhaustion. She stumbles to the door, giving a half-hearted wave. Isabela theorizes that Hawke is too tired to give her a goodbye kiss. It's all right. She'd kissed her all evening. Isabela grants Hawke a smile, an apology.

* * *

 

One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.

The Antivan man she dances with is light on his feet. Hawke struggles to keep up with him. She isn't sure whether she should be paying attention to their feet, the way the red dress she wears swirls around her ankles and heels or if she should stare at his handsome bronzed face and his bright green eyes. A pretty color but they aren't amber.

She misses a step. Apologizes. He dances so gracefully that her misstep looks natural. His voice is deep, his accent, exotic. He continues to ask questions. She continues to count steps. She will never get used to this part of the parties. Leandra beams by the fireplace. Varric looks as if he will piss himself with laughter.

Isabela strolls in in one of Hawke's white dresses. Hawke follows her movements across the room, misses another step, apologizes again. She hasn't seen Isabela in several days. She hadn't told her about the party. Isabela's made her opinion on the events known.

The den is warm with body heat or maybe it's the wine that Hawke has consumed in the evening. Her dance partner, Diego, has been handy with the drinks. Isabela watches Hawke with a curious smile and makes her way over to Varric. Leandra keeps her eyes on Isabela as she grabs a glass of wine from Bodahn's serving tray and drinks.

"A friend of yours?" Diego asks Hawke when he catches her looking. She thinks his name is Diego, anyway.

"In a manner of speaking." Are they friends? The small trio of players continue with the music until Hawke gives them a vicious look. The music winds down abruptly. She's happy to be finished with the dance. She doesn't know if she's always been so awful at dancing or if she's only distracted. She starts to make her way to Varric and Isabela when Diego (possibly) takes her hand and kisses it. Hawke catches her mother's knowing look. She nods to him, gives him a chaste kiss on the cheek before abandoning him. She sets her eyes on Varric first, "You shut up."

"You're no fun," he lifts a toothpick sigh thinly sliced meat wrapped around a cube of cheese. "This is so dainty. Are all nobles so dainty? And so awkward on their feet?"

"Maybe some nobles are better on their backs," Isabela suggests with a devilish grin. Varric laughs loudly. The party attendants turn to him in disdain, turning their noses up. He steals another four sticks of meat and cheese from a nearby silver platter. Hawke gives Isabela her gentlest murderous look. "Like the dress?" Isabela asks. "Your Mother doesn't. She's been looking at me in that disapprovingly motherly way since I walked in."

"She bought it for me only a week ago and wanted me to wear it tonight. How often do you come here stealing my clothing?"

"More often than you think." Isabela says with a grin. Hawke hadn't thought that Isabela visited at all. But she does. To pilfer things. Isabela is practically spilling from the dress. Hawke wonders if she stares, if others stare. She mulls the matter over when Isabela leans over, her lips brushing her ears. "Your mother still has no idea about us." She says it as if it were amusing.

Is it? Hawke looks to her mother who is engaged in conversation with the man who might possibly be known as Diego and keeps skirting furtive, suggestive glances in Hawke's direction, the suggestion being that she come over. Hawke smiles obliviously to her mother. "You know how Mother is; she wants someone suitable."

"And I'm not?"

Hawke pulls back to look at Isabela's face. All that she can read in it is mischief and devilish delight. Is she teasing? Is she serious? Does it matter? It isn't as if Hawke is sleeping with any of the men that she meets. In fact, she's too embarrassed to say, and will not admit if asked, that Isabela is the only one she's been with since Athenril. "You're perfectly suitable." She sighs.

"I don't want to be suitable. How boring. How conventional."

Hawke frowns. She looks at Varric who arches his eyebrows questioningly at her. Isabela is making eyes at the man who might be named Diego. Someone remarks on the strange curiosity of the previously dead fireplace sparking violently to life before being smothered just as instantly. It's just as well. It's summertime. Leandra looks worriedly at Hawke.

Hawke ducks upstairs to her room without another word. Her temper is getting the better of her. It must be, though she can't figure out exactly what it is that triggered her. Perhaps it was the pressure of the high society parties.

She reads but can't concentrate.

She tries to write but no words come out.

An hour later, Isabela's laughter beckons her like a siren. Hawke exits her room and leans on the balcony, staring down. Isabela is dancing with Diego or whatever his name is.

She's carefree and lost in the moment. Rapture plays on her features. Hawke wonders if she's ever seen Isabela look so happy. Does anything worry her? Does she think of anything besides the damnable relic? What must it be like to be so free of obligation? Hawke's fingers curl around the banister. They continue to curl until they're white. She can't loosen them. There isn't a reason for that. These parties are a bore.

She watches them like a bird of prey, her eyes narrowing angrily on him. Thoughtfully. Actually, his name is Miguel, isn't it? It must be Miguel. She thinks she recalls her mother saying that.

The knowledge doesn't make any of the discomfited feeling go away.

Maybe it is Diego.

If she asked him the hazy ambivalence might go away. But she can't ask. After all this time it would be strange and awkward for everyone. Who are you? What are you?

 


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Well, no one told me to go forward on the smut, so no smut chapters! I'm okay with this.

* * *

xxx

Party cleanups have a tendency to go into all hours of the night, despite Bodahn and Sandal's help. Leandra always protests when they insist on helping and Bodahn always protests in return, saying it's the  _least_ he can do. Hawke does agree that it is the least that he can do but she keeps the thoughts to herself.

The parties are exhausting, mentally more than physically despite the dancing. She is not well suited for mindless chatter despite Varric's 'compliment' that she is rather good at it and manages to look pretty while playing the role of the eligible bachelorette.

This night she finishes the dishes and throws the hand towel to the sink before climbing the stairs to her bedroom. She sits at her desk but there's nothing to write besides the names of men and women that she's met, men and women of some importance in Kirkwall who couldn't matter less to her.

Her mother is soon in her room, wearing her usual expression of worry. Perhaps Hawke is tired but she has grown weary of catering to it. Her mother asks if the party was not to her liking. She wonders if all mothers so misunderstand their daughters or if she's only fortunate. "You know I don't care about these parties," Hawke says shortly, throwing the quill down. There's nothing to write. She stands and begins to pull away the dress that she's wearing.

"Is something the matter?" Leandra asks. "You seem agitated. It's true that this party ran a little long… Have I had too many parties?" Yes, the party did run a little long. It seems that she has no time for herself these days. Running around for the people of Kirkwall during the day, dancing to the tune of the party musicians at night. "We've been alone for so long that I thought…"

"Have as many parties as you want, Mother—but don't bother trying to set me up." She throws her dress over the chair and goes to her wardrobe. There are a few items missing.  _Isabela…_  Hawke dismisses thoughts of her. She finds her night clothing and angrily slips into them. "Don't you know that I'm not interested in marriage to any noble in Kirkwall? They'd never be able to accept me for what I am." She ties her hair up and crosses her arms to stare into the fireplace.

Leandra follows her movements nervously. "No one has to know, Viktoria."

"It will come out." She looks at her mother, her voice hard. "It always has a way of coming out, don't you understand that? No, you couldn't, you're not the one who's a blighted apostate. I've been more than patient." Viktoria grits her jaw. She's taken out her fears on her mother. What she ought to do is leave behind aiding the apparent helpless citizens of Kirkwall and worry about herself. No. That isn't the right path. Why can't it ever be easy? She looks at her mother. Leandra has flinched at the words. Maker. Why take her anger out on her mother? "Anyway…" She crosses her arms more tightly, feeling suddenly cold. "There's. There's someone else, so… so please, just stop."

"Someone else?" Leandra's dazed. She comes closer. "Who?"

Hawke's face is warm. She wishes she could pretend it was the fireplace. "No one, really. No one that matters." No one that's supposed to matter. No one that wants to matter.

Leandra's quiet. "Is it that pirate girl? Isabela?" Hawke says nothing, staring too intently into the fireplace. A heat spreads throughout her lungs, her breath too long contained. "I'm not blind, love. I've seen how you look at her when she comes to the parties. At first I thought I'd imagined it."

Is it worth arguing? She stands in silence for too long, her final offering paltry and meek, unconvincing. "I don't know what you mean."

"You can't take your eyes off her. You think I don't know you, Viktoria? I did raise you, after all."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Do you talk to anyone? About anything? I worry about you. You can't keep everything bottled up inside. It isn't healthy. It will find a way to come out." Leandra stands beside her. She touches Hawke's shoulder gingerly. "No more parties in the home. The point was to find you a husband. Or someone. You should have told me."

"I thought you knew," she says with a pained smirk. Hawke covers Leandra's hand with her own. "I'm not exactly known for confiding things. Look…" She doesn't know how to think of Isabela much less explain her to her mother. Telling her their relationship is exclusively sexual is not what a mother wants to hear. "Maybe someday I'll want a husband. But not today. Not anytime soon."

"I want grandchildren," Leandra teases.

Hawke laughs softly. "Don't hold your breath."

* * *

xxx

The conversation is…difficult. Isabela feels as if she's naked in public—or whatever her equivalent to that is—she's not one to mind it much. Hawke asks too many questions. She looks through her. She looks through the surface and pries below to areas that Isabela herself doesn't want to peer at or think of.

This is sex. Convenient, free, out of this world sex. Nothing more. Nothing less. That's what it's supposed to be, anyway. She shouldn't have visited Hawke in Hightown. Oh, she hates Hightown. She hates the formality and their sequined pillows and their plush carpeting… Shit, balls, fuck, sod it all.

"What is it?" Hawke asks. She brushes a black tendril behind Isabela's ear. She does it tenderly, her touch but a feather. Isabela shifts in her lap, arm circled around Hawke's neck as if for dear life. Or maybe she wants to strangle her and run; she isn't sure. Isabela mutters a response. Hawke kisses her neck. Isabela wants to push her away, not wanting her own wild, erratic heartbeat to give away her desperation. She feels sweaty, cold and sweaty even though the room is an appropriate temperature. Hawke says: "Here, I got you something."

"Is it a drink?" Isabela laughs nervously. Talking about love makes her want to toss out her insides more than any poison or overindulgence of alcohol will. She thinks of how she told Hawke about her mother. She felt ashamed. She still does. Her mother is so clearly different from Leandra. But Hawke had looked at her as if she understood. As if she'd felt badly for her, had wished she could give her better. Isabela wants a drink. "Give me the entire bottle."

Hawke smirks and reaches behind her. Isabela wonders where she got it from. A black corset. Oh, it's  _lovely_. Why has Hawke gotten it for her? When did she get it for her? How much was it? Will her entire wardrobe be determined by Hawke now? Alright, so the red band on her arm was her idea to keep but… "Let's try it out," Hawke says. She reaches behind Isabela and wraps it around her, cocking her head to study the effect. "How do you like it?" she asks Isabela.

Isabela thinks that Hawke never asked if she liked the hats. Which is good, as she hadn't. She likes the black corset. "It's nice," she admits reluctantly. Hawke smiles. "I can—" do it. But Hawke is already helping her, lacing it into place. "I prefer it when you take my clothes off," she says.

"So do I." Hawke continues to pull and tighten the cords.

They're too tight. Isabela can't breathe. She slips her fingers under the cords to show Hawke how they cut into her fingers but they don't. The fit is looser than Isabela is accustomed to as if Hawke had known not to rein her in too tightly. Hawke won't even give her reason to complain. Why is her heart beating so madly? She kisses Hawke to distract her, to stop the binding.

The kiss is soft, sweet like a dessert. Hawke continues to lace the corset despite the kiss, throughout it. Then Hawke gasps and pulls away. She brings a hand quizzically to the back of her neck. It comes away wet with blood. Isabela withdraws her hand, sees the red half moons under her nails. Neither one of them says anything right away. "I guess I got carried away," Isabela says. She hadn't realized she was doing it. Hawke tells her it's okay. Will the stupid woman forgive her everything? Isabela slides off Hawke's lap. "I've got to go. Too much talking in one evening is… well, you must know." She doesn't know if Hawke knows, doesn't care if Hawke knows. She just has to go.

Hawke stands quickly. "Won't you stay?" she asks with some urgency before stopping, wincing and putting a hand to the back of her neck again.

Isabela considers cleaning it, bandaging it, kissing it. She doesn't consider staying. "The night is young. There are still parties happening in Lowtown. Real parties, not like this high society prissiness you people do up here. And I know you have to catch up on your rest to be, you know, the savior of Kirkwall so…" She doesn't miss the way that Hawke frowns. She's relieved that she does. Wants Hawke to be angry at her, not think highly of her, not pity her. "So… I'll see you later."

Hawke eviscerates the distance between them. She takes Isabela's arm. Isabela fights not to yank it away, fights to keep her expression casual but her annoyance shows.

"I'm glad we talked tonight." Hawke says, "But—"

"But?" But what? Does she want more? Does she want less? Why does she look at her that way? Why do her eyes say so much more than her words ever do? Isabela wishes she could blindfold her again. The urge comes strong and vicious.  _Damn it, Hawke_. She'd told her she didn't want to bring feelings into this. Why did the ice queen bring them up? It's a betrayal. It was a trap. She wants to hit Hawke. She wishes that Hawke had heard the thought and would slap her for thinking it. Is Hawke in love with her? It terrifies her that Hawke might be in love with her. Hawke should know better than to fall in love with someone like her. "What is it?" she asks testily. She stares at Hawke's hand wrapped around her arm like a chain. Hawke lets her go. Isabela tells herself that Hawke is not in love with her.

"Nothing." Hawke shakes her head. "Have a good night."

* * *

xxx

Isabela pulls away at the gates of the Qunari compound. She has to talk to someone about a dog? She forgot something? Her excuses are absurd. Hawke wonders how she ever imagined Isabela to be a liar. She supposes she never classified her as a good one. "I can wait," Hawke says. This nets her a deadly look from Aveline who thinks she is too neglectful of Kirkwall's needs. Even Hawke can't deny that she's waited too long to see the Arishok.

"No, you can't." Isabela says. "I'm sure whatever it is, it's important. Look how Aveline is scowling at us both," she reaches a hand across and pinches Aveline's cheek. Aveline slaps her hand away without attempting to be gentle about it. Isabela smiles and rubs at her hand.

"But where are you going?" Hawke asks. She tries to meet Isabela's eyes that go every which way. Isabela has been flighty and distracted lately. She can only imagine it's because of their talk. She wishes that it hadn't changed things. Nothing  _is_ different. But things  _are_ different. Isabela is present and distant. "What's so important?"

Isabela smiles. "Don't pout because I'm leaving your side. It's only for a moment. I'd rather go shopping for hats than deal with your silly Qunari politics." She gives Hawke a quick kiss. Aveline rolls her eyes.

"You've taken up with this one now?" Aveline asks pointing at Isabela.

Isabela ignores her and keeps her focus on Hawke. "Come find me after you're done and I'll help you take out the riff-raff. Ta." She quickly takes the steps down from the Qunari compound. She doesn't look back.

Hawke frowns watching her go.

"Not her most compelling performance," Aveline says. Varric grunts in resentful agreement.

"We don't need her with us to see the Arishok," Hawke says. She still doesn't like it.

In the end the situation is resolved. The Arishok did do Kirkwall a courtesy (Hawke supposes) despite his frustration at being stuck in Kirkwall. Filth has stolen from them, he says. Hawke is unsettled. She's fatigued from the poison gas the elven woman released in the Lowtown alleys. Her headache is persistent. She speaks to the viscount long enough to warn him that the Arishok will not be sitting by idly.

She leaves him and worries that war with the Qunari may soon become an inevitability. She remarks much the same to Aveline who looks as grim as ever and tells her she'll attempt to increase recruitment for the city guard (despite templar objection) and dedicate more time to battle training. "We must prepare for the worst," Aveline tells her.

"Don't say that," Hawke doesn't want to think of Kirkwall under siege by the Qunari. They're fearsome warriors and a match for her and her companions. She hates to think of them taking up arms against the citizens of Kirkwall. She can't… She can't very well just  _let_ them if that were to happen. If only the Qunari could return to Par Vollen.

"Don't think burying your head in the sand will be enough to make it go away," Aveline chastises, catching Hawke before she leaves the Keep. "And now you tell me that the Qunari delegate and his entourage have disappeared? How do you think the Arishok will react to that?"

"He should be told."

"To what end?"

"He warned us about the saar-qamek. We should offer him the same courtesy." We? None of this is her concern. She swears. "Why am I involved in all of this?"

"No sense in asking 'why' Hawke. Accept it. The sooner you do, the sooner we can address it."

Hawke smiles. Aveline is a menace and relentless in her pursuit to do good. It used to annoy Hawke that Aveline has always expected the same virtue of everyone. It's always made more trouble for her than it's worth. But she reasons that the world would be a far better place if there were more Avelines in it. "Don't you ever let off my back?"

"No," she says smugly. "Someone should get you off of it." Aveline frowns. "Speaking of which… Do you really think it's a good idea to be involved with that woman?" Oh. Here we go. No, she hadn't made mention of the status of…whatever she and Isabela are. But Isabela kissing her at the compound had firmly put their private business out there. "How long has it been going on?" Aveline waits and gets no answer. "Your private life is your own but you can't deny that her behavior is suspicious. How do you explain it?"

"I don't. I can't. I don't know, Aveline. I don't know." She shakes her head. Aveline opens her mouth but Hawke raises a hand. "Isabela's behavior isn't relevant now. I must speak with the Arishok. Hopefully for the last time." She coughs dryly, the effects of the poison gas from earlier. She waves away the concern on Aveline's face. Aveline seems to be faring well, as is Varric. Whatever ill effects there are should soon expire. So she hopes.

"You aren't well. You should rest. I'll go with you to see the Arishok in the morning. You know how the Qunari feel about… well. About people like you. And Maker knows you can't trust Isabela to stay at your side. Leandra would have my hide if I let anything happen to you."

Hawke laughs and releases another cough, her throat scratchy. "But how contradictory it would be for him to not hope I die only to kill me himself. I  _can_  take care of myself. But thank you," she says quietly. Aveline nods. Hawke agrees again to finally investigate Emeric's case against Gascard DuPuis and departs to see the Arishok. There are too many things that are happening, far too swiftly. There are letters upon letters at her home from people asking for help, items upon items that have been found and need to be delivered to their owners.

It's exhausting. She sees the Arishok and informs him of the missing delegates. She assures him she will get to the bottom of the matter as swiftly as she can. She is glad that Isabela isn't with her. Isabela who would ridicule her for going out of her way to get nothing in return.

The walk to Hightown takes too long and by the time she arrives home her head is throbbing. She recalls how Isabela had mentioned that there is no way that Javaris could have stolen from the Qunari, that it was too hard. She had been right but how could she know that? It might have been a guess but Hawke houses a heavy, uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach when she thinks of it. Isabela had left yet again when they'd returned to the Arishok to inform him of the end result of their investigation. Her excuses were as flimsy as the first time.

Hawke strips her clothing upon reaching her room and takes a bath. Later she holds the ship in a bottle she found in the cave and looks it over. She'll give it to Isabela. It will be a gift. A joke. She knows how Isabela goes to the docks just to watch the boats. She sets it down carefully on her desk, grateful that it hadn't been smashed in the fighting and runs her fingers over her hair. She can't escape the feeling that Isabela is lying to her.

* * *

 

xxx

"Why do you keep avoiding the Qunari compound?"

Isabela had awaited the question from Hawke, not from Varric. She nearly shows her hand but saves it at the last minute. Fenris is giving her the stink eye and Merrill looks to her questioningly, as if it suddenly occurred to her that this was a matter fit for discussion, worthy of curiosity.

"Have you seen them?" She asks, looking at Varric and then at Fenris who looks less than impressed and not half as understanding as Varric. "I'm smart to avoid them. They're so… horny. And not the kind of horny I'm into." She glances at Merrill to see the question forming on her lips and waves it away before she can ask.

Varric's eyes squint on her. "Rivaini…"

So that's how it is? Doesn't anyone trust her? Not that they ought to—her track record in the past hasn't been fantastic— but she's behaved around them for a good many years. Still so many questions about her sketchy behavior. Why do they watch her so closely? She has a sip of her beer, annoyed at them, annoyed at herself for being annoyed at them. "Don't be so wound up," she says just as much to herself as she does to them. "Look, I get tired of running around on Hawke's little errands." Merrill nods approvingly at this. "Just because she's the errand girl of Kirkwall, doesn't mean that I have to be."

"I'm not arguing that," Varric says but his words hint that it is something else that he argues. It isn't anything Isabela wants to get into. Why is the blighted Arishok still hanging around Kirkwall? So what if she stole their stupid book and lost it. Move on already. "All I'm saying is that if you want us to swallow what you're feeding, Rivaini, you've gotta come up with better material."

Isabela takes another drink of beer instead of responding. It's better not to address it. Varric can smell bullshit from a mile away and she doesn't have anything on the ready. Fenris continues to glower somewhat more severely than usual. She wonders if Aveline or Varric ran their mouth to him about her and Hawke. What does it matter, anyway? Fenris was the one to dump Hawke—and it isn't as if she and Hawke are dating. They're just sleeping together. That's all. She scratches at her forehead. Merrill asks if she has an itch that needs to be scratched. Isabela tries not to spit out her beer.

"Oh, look." Varric stands and waves to Hawke who has just walked into the tavern. Hawke spots them, her gaze lighting on everyone at the table before walking over. "There's a seat all warmed up for you, Hawke. And before you ask, no, it isn't on my lap."

"You so love to break my heart, Varric." Hawke pouts. "Now what will I do with my coquettish behavior that I had all planned out for the evening? Where oh where will I direct my ear nibbling and wandering hands?"

Varric laughs. "Now, now, stop that. Bianca will get jealous. She already thinks you're a harlot—don't worry, I'll give her a loving stroke and she'll settle down."

"Where's my loving stroke?" Hawke asks with a grin.

"I believe I can take care of that," Isabela throws her cards to the table and stands. Hawke looks to her, surprised. Funny, how she can make that expression. Funny that she can make expressions. Isabela remembers when Hawke's face had been nothing but a blank. She sees Fenris' eyes narrow and Merrill's widen in confusion. Isabela can't tell if Merrill is confused by her flirtations or Hawke's. Varric covers his eyes with his hand and chuckles. Isabela takes Hawke's wrist. "There's something we need to discuss," she says to Hawke.

"And it's best discussed in private quarters," Varric volunteers.

Good man. He knows her too well. Isabela smiles and tugs Hawke away. So she hadn't explained it all to Merrill yet. Now she knows. She'll get over it. If not she can talk to her later to smooth things over. She can't stand the idea of Merrill being angry at her. She firmly believes that if Merrill were to  _sleep_ with Hawke, so much would be forgiven. Unless Merrill were to cling to her pesky principles, which admittedly is likely.

"You wanted to talk?" Hawke asks anxiously as soon as the door has closed behind Isabela.

Isabela doesn't know why Hawke looks the way that she does. She laughs softly. "Not really." She wraps her arms around her neck and pulls her down for a kiss. The less they talk, the better. Hawke kisses her leisurely. As if she is tired or as if it means something. Isabela presses tightly to her, pushing her to the wall, seizing her mouth again. She bites Hawke's lips and starts to pull at her clothes.

Hawke escapes. She runs her tongue experimentally over her lower lip. Isabela can see a dab of blood on it. She hadn't meant to bite so hard. Hawke smiles questioningly and reaches into the small bag at her side. Isabela wonders why she hadn't noticed it before. "I could get used to your enthusiastic greetings," Hawke says, her words more cheerful than her expression. "Did you miss me?" Isabela laughs. Hawke turns her head to look at whatever she's pulling out of the bag. Isabela can't see her face. She pulls out a bottle. With a ship inside. A ship in a bottle. She extends it to Isabela who only stares at it before moving forward tentatively to take it. "Look. It's a ship. Just for you. There's no more need for stabbing me in the back now that I've made all your dreams come true."

Isabela looks at it. Where did she get this? The ship inside is a beauty, nothing like the real thing but if it were real and if it  _were_ hers… Hawke makes a joke about a small figurine below quarters with lads in service to her. Isabela smiles, sadly, genuinely and looks to her. "Thank you, Hawke. This is…a lovely gesture. And unexpected." When had she found it? When Isabela was spinning stories for her? After she had asked a barrage of questions on her questionable behavior around the Qunari compound?

"Here's a small stand. It isn't what it came with," Hawke says, "But I thought it'd be a fine way to keep it from rolling off… well, wherever you put it." Isabela takes the stand and goes to the desk to set it down, balancing it carefully on the stand. She bites her tongue and thinks of her lost ship, her lost men, her lost relic, her soon to possibly be, lost life. What would Hawke do if she found out that she's lied to her for so long? Would she hate her? She doesn't want for Hawke to hate her. "Well," Hawke asks, "what's the matter?" She stands behind Isabela, arms around her waist, chin resting gently on her shoulder, peering at the ship with her.

Isabela tenses. It'd be one thing if Hawke were sliding her hand up between her legs. That's more what she's used to. Not this. Her chest is too tight. She lets out a small, taut laugh. "I'm used to stealing things, not receiving them."

"What about the hats?"

"I thought you wanted sex."

"I did. But that isn't why I gave them to you." Hawke says. Isabela furrows her eyebrows and turns her head to look at her, to ask the question. Hawke speaks before she can. "I want to give you things."

Why? She doesn't know what to say. "That's…sweet." Isn't that the proper response? Shit. What's she doing with Hawke? Hawke is confused. And she's confusing her. Isabela freezes when Hawke takes gentle hold of her chin, kisses her just as gently. Isabela pulls away. "You keep giving me these gifts I'm going to suffocate beneath them." Hawke's look is questioning. "Anyway, I've never given you anything." You don't give someone anything without expecting something in return. That isn't how the world works. There's always a trade, always a deal in the mix whether you know it or not. "I lied when I said I was a virgin."

Hawke smiles. "Your first performance was befitting of a virgin." Isabela finds a pillow, throws it at her. Hawke catches it and sets it back on the bed. "Look. I need to talk to you."

"Oh. It isn't about our conversation before, is it? Because… I've already said what I'm going to say on husbands and love…" she touches her earring, rubs at it, feels where it's smoother when she's done this nervously throughout the years.

"I won't dance around this. What are you hiding?" Hawke asks. Suddenly Isabela wishes that the vagueness that Hawke takes around her, the vagueness that she had always detested would come back full force. Of all things to be direct about. "You keep disappearing whenever we're near the Qunari compound. What have you done?"

Isabela laughs. Sputters. "What have I done? What do you mean?" She rubs at her earring. "Who in Kirkwall likes the Qunari? I'm expected to?"

"You're lying to me."

Isabela's quiet. "No." she says. "I'm not."

"Do you know anything about why the Arishok is stuck here in Kirkwall? He mentioned that someone stole something. You are in the habit of stealing things." Her tone becomes more aggressive when Isabela crosses her arms and says nothing. "I need to know that I can trust you."

"Oh, what's the fun in trust? That's like having a safe word. It's not half as dangerous if you know there's a safety-net all laid out ready to catch you."

"Will you just answer the bloody question?"

"I just don't like the Qunari, all right? They're large and… brute-like… And I laugh at the Qun so… doesn't it make sense that I'd stay out of their way?" she runs a hand through her hair agitatedly. Hawke's eyes on her are deadly. Isabela can't stand this gaze any more than when Hawke looks at her tenderly. Hawke moves to the door but Isabela stops her. "Don't go." She can't remember when she's said those words before. "I've a blindfold that is begging to be used over my eyes or yours, over my wrists or yours…" she reaches up, kisses her playfully, but holds her too hard. "Stay. Just for a little while," she says between kisses, "I've missed… your touch." Isabela forces her to the bed.

Hawke gives her exactly what she wants, pushes her to the breaking point. Euphoria crashes like waves into her so all thoughts, all guilt is submerged and forgotten. And then, Isabela sends her on her way.

* * *

xxx

Hawke's wrists are red and tinged in blues and purples. Her wrists are the colors of noble's family crests and emblems. She doesn't show them off. She isn't penitent. She knows the loving way in which her skin was changed to more interesting shades than it typically is. She remembers being tied down and not minding it, being afraid that she didn't mind it before the hot breath and the grunts and the gasps that accompanied them made her forget. She couldn't see Isabela's eyes.

She walks Hightown with Varric who informs her who's been arrested and who got away. Aveline makes things difficult—her guards aren't prone to corruption and she never rests. "I remember when you could bribe guard captains!" he says indignantly. Hawke smiles faintly. She hates to be put in a position between Varric and Aveline. She agrees with them both no matter how polar opposite their stances tend to be, but saying as much would alienate one of them. She will remain on the fence. "So…" he starts as she's picking up a fruit from a vendor. "I've been meaning to talk to you. What's the deal with you and Rivaini? Is it just a fun diversion or are you planning on picking out curtains?"

"Varric!" Hawke looks at him with a sheepish grin. "Have I made you jealous? At long last, oh say that it's so. My spirits soar at such wonderful news. Just say the word and I'll toss her out on her nicely shaped ass. You know you're the only one for me." But toss her out from where? It isn't as if she ever stays over, it isn't as if Isabela will even contend they have anything to be called on.

"Very funny, Hawke. But hey, I'm flattered." He looks over the orange she hands him and gives it back with a shake of his head. "You know I think she's great. You know that, right?" Varric accepts the red apple that she hands him with its skin as deep red as a rose.

"Noted…" Hawke says tentatively. Ah, Varric's concern is overwhelming and touching. She tries to soothe his nerves. "I never said I trusted her."

He looks at her warily. "What's the point of relationships if you can't trust each other?"

Relationship? Is that what they're in? What would Isabela say? Would she deny it flat or would she change the subject? The point? What is the point? "The sex?"

"Well, yeah, there's that…" Varric scratches at his temple. He looks up at her, his expression bordering on stern. "I know you're joking about this but I'd like to think that I know you better than that. I have been your faithful shoulder to lean on for years now. Just… be careful, Hawke."

"I'll call on your services to mend my broken heart the moment she decides she's finished with me. Oh, how I look forward to you mending away."

"You know I'm here for you," he says gruffly. Hawke wonders if he's bothered by her casual tone, by the sweetness of his sincere offer or by her stupidity.

* * *

xxx

Isabela has five dresses draped over her arm when she hears her clearing her throat. Ah, busted. She touches the fabric of the dresses lovingly, ah, the lacy material of the white dress would make Hawke look virginal but Isabela knows the men and women who would give up their right arms to see  _her_  move and dance in it, just for them. The light blue dress with its too thin fabric, on the other hand, with its long sleeves would make her look like a regular chantry attendee—it will be perfect for cutting all the fat purses of Hightown nobility. She reflects on the dresses some more, noting their uses and turns ready with a grin: "I could always put them on and you could have all the fun of ripping them off of—oh. Hello, Leandra." Bloody, blimey, sodding.  _Shit._ Isabela looks at the dresses on her arm and then to Leandra. Isabela's always been good at reading people but she can't read Leandra's face. Maybe because there's too much of Hawke in it. It's throwing her off. "There's a perfectly good explanation for this."

"You're stealing Viktoria's dresses."

"Oh. Well, yes. Borrowing, really. I ask for permission." After the fact. Not always then. She doesn't release the dresses. "I do bring them back." Usually. "The other ones… I just need to sew them up again." Oh, she doesn't like the way that Leandra's looking at her, far too thoughtfully. Isabela smiles and sets the dresses down. This is silly, isn't it? She takes on raiders and blood mages regularly and she's being undone by the knowing stare of Hawke's mother. What's the worst that Leandra can do? Bend her over her knee and spank her? Isabela laughs at the thought. What would Hawke say? Leandra looks at her curiously. "Oh. It's nothing. Just a funny…" she coughs. "So. Hawke's not here and I'll be… on my way."

Leandra moves to follow her as she walks. Isabela thinks of the store clerks who watch her too closely at times. In Leandra's defense, she did just catch her in the act. Leandra raises a hand as if to ask a question. Then she asks a question: "Are you serious about her?"

_Balls._ What has Hawke been saying? She plays dumb. "Serious about what?"

"Oh." Leandra is puzzled, ducking her chin in that thoughtful way that Hawke does when she's considering something. Isabela wonders which parent Hawke is more like. She got her mother's looks. Hawke will age well. If she ever has the opportunity. Isabela is grateful for this and reminds herself that she won't be sticking around that long. When has she ever? Nothing ever lasts. "Viktoria mentioned that you two… She's never mentioned anyone." _Balls._ Panic rears on its hind legs again, ready to crash down on Isabela's skull. "So I'm asking if you're serious about her."

"Oh," Isabela rests her hands on her hips. "She's serious enough for the three of us, isn't she?"

"She used to smile more. When her father was still alive and Bethany was near. And then Carver…" Leandra's voice is foggy with emotion. Isabela is uncomfortable. She'd come to take some dresses, not have a heart-to-heart with Hawke's mother. She doesn't know how to have heart-to-hearts. "She smiles more lately." Isabela shifts. "You may have something to do with that. I see that certain spirit in you… wild and free, not one to follow rules. Her father was that way. Malcolm was that way." Isabela frowns. She doesn't want to hear this. Anyway, who wants to date anyone that's like their father? "She always carries so much of a burden."

"But she does it to herself," Isabela says in spite of not having wanted to engage Leandra in any sort of discussion. "No one asks her to do these things." No, that isn't true. Everyone asks. "She doesn't have to do anything but she does."

"And that's…shameful to you?"

"Shameful or not, she's a sap. Who cares about shame or virtue?" She adds more quietly. Yes, she'd released those slaves and now what? Now it's her life on the line. The slaves would have been alive either way. Maybe Hawke would have found and released them and everything would have been all right. Instead she took stupid, heroic action and for what? To steal a book that has the Qunari up in arms, that will mean her life if she doesn't find it again. Screw the heroics, screw virtue. "You're her mother. Do you really want her running around doing stupid, dangerous errands? For what? Honor? Virtue? Who cares about that when you're dead? It isn't worth a damn, then."

Leandra wrings her hands. "Don't say such things. I can't imagine… I've already lost so much. I can't lose her, too. You're…close to her." Isabela is ready to argue when Leandra continues. "You'll watch out for her. Keep an eye on her? Keep her safe when I can't be with her."

Isabela looks down at her hand that Leandra has taken. She wants to shake her away. Who does she look like? Aveline? Hawke's safety isn't her responsibility. That's too much responsibility. It's hard enough watching out for her own hide. "Hawke…can take care of herself," Isabela says withdrawing her hand carefully. "You…" She bites her tongue. She doesn't look at her, can't look at her. "You've been a good mother. It shows. You look at the way that she acts and how she behaves and it shows. She's lucky."

She leaves, the dresses forgotten, the conversation begging to be forgotten.

* * *

xxx

The death of Gascard DuPuis will not put the matter of the murders to rest. Emeric is dead now and a killer is on the loose. It troubles her. Hawke could have sworn that Gascard was a menace, that he'd endangered and harmed Alessa, that he'd killed those other women. Now Alessa is missing, Gascard is dead and for what? Had he been telling the truth? Has she killed an innocent man? Who is she to decide who dies and who lives? She can't keep still.

"I know what you're thinking," Isabela says. She sits on Hawke's desk chair in her room, watching Hawke move back and forth in front of the fireplace, "but I can smell rotten a mile away. That Gascard DuPuis was no good. You did a good thing by taking him out."

"He was a blood mage," Hawke says. Yes. He was. But she only sounds as if she's trying to convince herself. "What if this is wrong? What if all of this is wrong?" She continues to pace. "None of this is my concern. So what if people come to me and ask that I take action? What if I'm doing the wrong thing? What if I'm only making things worse?"

She continues to pace until Isabela comes and stands in front of her, stops her mobility. She takes Hawke's face in her hands. Hawke's eyes half close. "Breathe." Hawke can't. "Go on. Just take a breath and let it out slowly. You know how to do this." Hawke takes an unsteady breath. She lets it go and feels dangerously close to deflating. "I'm not going to say that you're perfect. You aren't. I disagree with you on a lot and sometimes you're stupid and stubborn and mean. But you  _are_ good. And you have good intentions." Hawke closes her eyes and lowers her head. "What's really going on? These questions you're asking can be asked of any of the sods we come across regularly."

"I don't understand the darkness in the hearts of men and women. Why kill? Simply for the sake of killing with no other motive?"

"You're talking about this mystery murderer? Maybe he or she has a reason. Doesn't mean we have to understand it. Doesn't mean we have to like it. Or maybe you're right and there is no reason. Sometimes there isn't a reason." Isabela says. Hawke frowns. Isabela tries to smooth it away with her thumb. "Sometimes you're as naïve as Merrill is."

"Don't compare us." She's grieved. Every blood mage has been trouble. Every one. Will Merrill be the same? What about her? Will something terrible happen that will push her to… to Maker knows what? "Sometimes it feels like it will never end. There will always be something waiting." Stealing was easier than any of this. Having sway over others lives vexes and frightens her. She exhales softly. Isabela brushes a kiss to her forehead. Hawke gingerly holds on to Isabela's arms. "What if I'm not strong enough?"

"You are strong enough."

"I have to use this blighted magic of mine more and more every day. Everyone we fight gets stronger."

"You are strong enough," Isabela repeats.

"I don't know what to do."

"Quit."

Hawke shakes her head. Why can't she quit? Hadn't that been the plan? Is this all Aveline's influence? She's come to care for Kirkwall and its citizens, despite herself, despite not wanting to be involved in its politics. Despite that the city hates mages like her. "I can't."

"Then stop being so afraid of yourself. Do you really think you're like those other mages? Do you think you'll cave when the going gets tough? How much tougher can it get?"

Hawke doesn't want to think of how much harder things can get. "I'm worried about that woman, Alessa." She would hate to find her in pieces.

"Aveline has her men on that. If you can count on anything from Lady Man-Hands it's to be thorough. Have you any idea how many private enterprises of mine she's shut down?" She tilts Hawke's face up so that she looks at her. "Hey. Relax. It's not all up to you. What you've got to understand is that sometimes things happen. No matter how much you don't want them to, no matter what you do, there are some things that can't be stopped. There are some people who will do what they will without giving a thought to anybody else. Not everyone can be saved."

Hawke takes Isabela's hand on her face, curls her fingers around it. She's panicked and can't understand the reason. She has the most terrible feeling and doesn't know how to explain it, how to make it go away. She kisses Isabela. They kiss. Heatedly. Tremblingly. Hawke hugs Isabela to her. She doesn't notice how stiff Isabela is. She only knows that she's near and is in her arms. Isabela doesn't hug her back. Maybe because her arms are pinned too tightly or maybe it doesn't occur to her. They kiss again and again.

Hawke is desperate. It embarrasses her. She has Isabela partially undressed when Isabela stops her, a hand to her chest. Hawke moves it aside, pins it to the bed, kisses her collarbone, her neck, her fleeting lips. Isabela stops her again. "Hawke. I have to go."

"What?" Hawke looks at her. This again? It's been nearly a year. "Why?"

"It's late."

"Since when do you care about late?"

Isabela shifts her eyes away. "You're obviously upset and not in the mood. And I'd really like all your attention."

"You have it."

"I'm not staying." Isabela tells her through gritted teeth, as if it were a fight.

Hawke hovers over her. "What do I have to do? Do I have to leave extra coin on the dresser to get you to stay one bloody night?"

The words have barely left her lips when Isabela slaps her. Hawke sees the gold viper tattoo on Isabela's arm, stares at it. Isabela's hand falls away, fingers curling tentatively. Her fingertips are hot. Hawke settles to the side of her. The bed is comfortable and welcoming, too jarring against Isabela's strike. Hawke's eyes water. She touches her face, where the sting is, lowers her head. She keeps it down. Her breath comes and goes in pieces, like the tide. Isabela sits up. Her eyes burn. She gets up, straightens her clothing and leaves without another word.

Hawke's breath continues, unsteady and broken.

 


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: God. This chapter. Thanks to everyone who has encouraged me to revisit this story, as depressing as it is sometimes.

* * *

xxx

It's so late in the night that the sky is black. It had been laced with dark blues when Isabela left. Hawke has been sitting at her desk for hours. After some documentation of the Kirkwall political climate she had been unable to write more. Her journal, when she sifts through it, appears to be nothing more than a chronicling of Kirkwall history. Is that normal?

She exhales and rests her forehead in her hand. Maker, how is she so talented at screwing up her personal life?

A teacup is set beside her, porcelain white with the pale pink design of a rose. Hawke looks up to see her mother in a robe. She looks tired and worried but she smiles all the same. "Trouble sleeping, love?" Leandra asks. Hawke offers a small, guilty smile. "I remember when it was as easy as giving you and the twins a bit of tea and telling you there was no monster under the bed." She ruffles Hawke's hair.

"I remember when I believed it." She has a taste of the tea, is comforted by it despite how it burns the tip of her tongue. She touches the glass, chills it a pinch. "If I ever abandon these reckless missions of mine for Kirkwall I might work in a restaurant kitchen keeping plates hot and drinks cold."

Leandra smiles. "You're better than that. Admittedly I'd prefer to see you safe at home, and happy." She cocks her head to look down at Hawke. "I hate to see you profoundly unhappy most of all. What's happened?" Hawke shakes her head. There's no sense in bothering her mother with the troubles of her own stupidity. "Would it have anything to do with whatever it is that made Isabela race out of here earlier?" Hawke is unresponsive. So she heard her go. Leandra sighs. "You've always kept to yourself. I'm going to bed. Come find me if you want to talk." She kisses her head and leaves Hawke's bedroom.

Hawke sits in silence for an hour and nurses her tea, warming it with a flick of her wrist when it starts to get cold. The sky is turning dark blue again. She rises, goes to her mother's room, knocks lightly and enters. Hawke is surprised to see a candle burning on the nightstand beside the bed. She had not expected her mother to be awake. Instead she has a needle in hand, working on some piece of embroidery. It's Andraste's Grace. Bethany used to like that flower. "I thought older people were supposed to rest.”

"And I thought daughters were supposed to respect their mothers." She pats a spot on the bed beside her and Hawke sits down. "I can't sleep when my child is suffering."

Hawke laughs. "Suffering? Do all mothers exaggerate so?"

"Many do." She sets the book that she's been reading aside. "But I don't."

Hawke twines her hands, straightens them out along her knees before settling them out along her legs. She frowns thinking of what has happened. She's only had these discussions with Bethany before. Bethany. Maker. She'd be twenty-four this year. Has she been gone so long? And poor Carver. She shakes her head as if she could shake her lost siblings but she can't.

It's difficult to talk. "I've been unfair to Isabela." Hawke starts. "I said a terrible thing." Leandra waits. Hawke is silent for minutes. "The truth is…" her words thin and cut away. "The truth is that I love her. I have never known that…I was capable of feeling—like this. So deeply for anyone that isn't family. It's strange." She sounds as if she's in a fog. She grounds herself. "And it's so bloody stupid of me to fall in love with her. She does whatever she wants when she wants. And I can't. I have all these obligations.” None that she wants. “She doesn't love me. She won't even consider it." Hawke tries not to dwell on how she hates it. She tries not to dwell on how it eats at her. "So I say these things to try to hurt her as much as she hurts me." She laughs shakily and covers her face with her hand. "I'm the worst." Is she capable of love if she does these things?

Hot tears slide down her palms, slide down her arms, spotting her robe. Leandra pulls her close. "Oh, love. Look at you, so worried!" She kisses her forehead and rubs her back gently. "It'll all work out, just you wait and see. These things take time. I remember your father made me feel much the same way. I won't ask what you said to her. That's between the two of you. You'll have to apologize to her, but that's what love is. Admitting when you're wrong and trying to correct your mistakes. Shush now. It will all be all right."

Hawke doesn't know that it will be. It's silly that her mother has to comfort her this way. She's a grown woman. But she feels better.

* * *

xxx

The brig again.

Isabela stalks the small parameter. As much fun it is to get thrown into the brig, she hates being in it. It's too small, too cold, too stony, too confining. She hates tight, enclosed spaces. She giggles nervously at the thought and goes to the bars and tries to peer around. It's too dark.

Oh, is there anything worse than the brig? Yes, plenty. Intimate conversations and hordes of Qunari. She can think of little else. Celibacy. Life in the chantry, the two are mutually exclusive. She paces. Paces. She'd promised Aveline she wouldn't start any more brawls but they're too much fun to resist and she'd been drinking.

She paces more and considers she's wearing a path in the stone. She's been in this cell before. She's been locked away for three days now. Bloody Aveline. Considering how many times she'd saved her ass and her post the least she could do is turn her head the other way every now and then. So what if she'd gotten some of the city guard involved in the fighting?

She looks out the small window located high above the cell. Weak gray light spills in. It's too far up to climb with bars that are far too narrow for her to pass through. She wagers that Merrill might be able to make it. She smiles thinking of the elf. Ah, she can even imagine her voice.

"There you are! Why do you imagine they keep it so dark in here?" Merrill sighs pitifully. "Aveline wouldn't let me bring my yarn. She says I'll get all tangled up in it. I explained to her that no, I wouldn't and then she told me about the Kirkwall Strangler that they caught not too long ago. Anyway, here you are." She touches the bars and Isabela walks over to her, smiling warmly. "I do hate when you end up in here, though it always seems very exciting when you do. Aveline says you were fighting again."

"She says fighting, I say foreplay. It was fighting in this instance, though." She rubs at her forehead. Oh, she would love a bath! It's too cold in these blimey cells. "Don't worry, Aveline would never let you get lost in here. Good thing too, there are quite a few men in here, and a few women, I'm sure, that would love to play with a precious kitten like you. Or drown you. There are those types, too."

"Who would ever drown a kitten?" Merrill asks with alarm.

"Trust me, you don't want to know." She smiles happily and takes Merrill's hands that are still circled around the bars. They're cold. Isabela tries to warm them. "This isn't the sort of place for you. So go on, get going."

"But I thought it'd be nice to chat and you can't exactly go anywhere just now." She looks up to Isabela's face shyly. "I've missed you." Isabela feels a pang of guilt. "I know there's Varric and he's  _so_ wonderful but you're my favorite. I haven't… really seen you lately. For months? I haven't seen much of you for months. I don't really know how to have friends and all you shems are still new to me but you're still…" She pulls her hands away. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be bothering you with all of this."

Isabela sighs softly. "I've made a real mess of things, haven't I?" She scratches at the back of her neck and leans awkwardly into the bars. "I have neglected you. I'm… sorry." She bites her tongue. Yes. She has neglected Merrill. And for who? Viktoria Hawke? How had she been so thoughtless and self-centered? Why abandon Merrill who is so constantly alone?

"You've been with Hawke, haven't you?" Merrill asks. She keeps her eyes down. Isabela looks down too and sees Merrill's bare feet. Are they cold, she wonders?

"Not exactly. I mean, we've been sleeping together consistently. Not sleeping. There's been none of that." She clarifies. "Fucking." She chuckles happily at the thought. She wishes Hawke weren't so thoughtless. "That's been nice. She's good at exactly one thing. Maybe being an apostate has left her with an inferiority complex and that's why she persists in trying oh-so-hard."

"So… it's serious?"

Isabela laughs, shivers, flicks her fingers as if something icky got on her. "Not one bit. It's just sex." Just sex. Nothing more. No matter what Hawke may want. She can't stand still. She holds on to the bars to keep herself from pacing.

"Then… you've taken other lovers?"

"No. I mean—I know how that sounds but it saves me coin at the Blooming Rose. Coin that can be spent at the Hanged Man! And it's good. She's good. In bed. So." She frowns and forgets what her point had been, exactly. Maybe she should take other lovers. Oh. What would Hawke think? Who cares? She lets her head rest against the bars. Maker. Being in confinement is making her stir crazy. "What's with all the questions? Do you have a point, Kitten?"

"No point. I mean… No, I suppose there isn't." Merrill shuffles and takes hold of the bars again, standing on her tiptoes before coming to rest on her heels again. "It's just that… if she means nothing to you at all then..." Merrill scrunches her face thoughtfully. Isabela doesn't know what she's thinking, isn't sure that she wants to know but she is smitten regardless by how adorable Merrill is. "I don't know what my point is. I saw more of you when you had other lovers. When you had more than one. It would make sense if Hawke mattered. But I suppose I'm glad that she doesn't." Isabela bites her tongue and drops her eyes for a moment. "I brought you some bread." She dutifully hands her some between the bars.

Isabela takes it. Her throat is dry. She can't eat bread now. What she needs is ale and wine. Something to make it all go down. Something so it doesn't get lodged in her throat and suffocate her. "Thank you," she says. She moves to the wall and sits down.

* * *

xxx

"I didn't think I'd see you here," Aveline writes some figures on a clipboard. Hawke stands uncertainly and looks at the golden slaves mounted on the walls, their faces covered in shame. She turns her eyes away guiltily. "I assume you're here about Isabela. We don't allow conjugal visits so don't get any strange ideas."

"That's not why I'm here."

"Then why are you here? Surely you don't mean to pay her fine." Aveline looks up from the clipboard to see Hawke's face, pale and pensive. "You're joking. It's twenty sovereign. She only has a few days left. Let her wait it out."

"I have the coin." Hawke feels the weight of it in her hand, bounces it once before tossing it at Aveline. Aveline catches it and frowns. "Unless it's better put to use by having you in my pocket?"

"That isn't funny, Hawke." Aveline sets the clipboard down and waves for Hawke to follow her. They begin to descend a patch of wet stone steps. The air is mildewy and cold. "Whatever happened to letting her deal with her messes? She'll never learn otherwise."

"She hasn't learned yet."

"And I remember," Aveline tells her, "when you said that it didn't matter what happened to her, that she wasn't family."

"I don't remember saying that." Hawke tries to search the recesses of her mind and comes up short. She recalls Isabela's face vividly, her scent, her weight, her touch. Nothing of what Aveline mentions. Had she said it? She nearly longs for the days when she was absent of feeling for her. Everything was clearer then. It was drearier, emptier, sadder—but it was different. Numb. They reach the bottom of the staircase. Hawke stops Aveline before they walk further. "Do you mind if I talk with her before I let her out?" Aveline looks at her disapprovingly, suspicious. "There's just. Something I need to speak to her about."

"Is this more of your criminal mischief? I am the Captain of the Guard. I won't turn a blind eye, not even for you." Aveline steps closer, her eyes narrowed. Hawke explains the situation as quickly and concisely as she can. Aveline takes a step back, her face marked with disgust. "She should have hit you harder. Maker, what's wrong with you? This isn't some attempt to buy back her affections, is it? I'll club you to death myself. I hardly think it's the way to win her over."

"It isn't." She takes a breath. "Forget the bloody key. Let her out after I've gone, then. Just let me speak to her." Aveline looks doubtful. "You bloody owe me this after everything I've done for you and the guard."

"You're a tit, just like your brother," Aveline says rancorously. She pockets the key. "Fine. Do what you have to and let me know when you're finished. It's the sixth one down on the left. And don't kill any of the prisoners, even if they get lippy with you."

"I'll do my best," Hawke smirks. They part ways. Hawke hates the brig. She hates everything about the Gallows. She wonders if this is what the Circle is like. Is it any better really? Men from both sides of the cells begin smacking their lips at her, whistling, cat calling, groping themselves. She ignores them and arrives at the proper cell. Isabela is asleep on a patch of hay in the corner. Hawke's heart rends. She ducks her head, wonders if she should leave, starts to, when she hears Isabela's voice. She stops. Deliberates. Then steps back in front of the cage.

Isabela scowls. She settles back into the corner of hay. "And here I thought it might be someone I wanted to diddle. A guard or a chantry sister or anyone with a face that isn't yours. I've gotten out that way before, you know. The price is just too steep this time to have it all done in one go, but that's better because it means more screwing." She laughs darkly. "I don't want to talk to you."

Hawke wonders if any of what Isabela has said is true. She doesn't want it to be true. It isn't important now. "I know you're angry."

"Leave."

Hawke winces. Isabela being angry with her is unbearable. She fumbles for a conversation topic. She holds the bars and tries to lean close. The light is pale and sick in here, not right for Isabela. She outstretches her hand and an orb of fire appears above Isabela, bathing her in warm light. No bruises. Hawke is heartened, even as she sees the alarm on Isabela's face. Isabela tells her to put it out, quickly. Hawke says: "Mother would like for you to join us for dinner."

Another bitter laugh from Isabela. Hawke is unused to hearing it. She doesn't know if it suits Isabela but who is she to presume that she knows her at all? Isabela gets up from the floor, bats at the ball of fire. Her hand goes through it. She looks at it curiously and moves to the bars, the fire following her like a small sun. There are stray pieces of hay stuck to her clothing, to her legs. "Did you tell her the going rate? Or do I need to write them down on a card for you?" Hawke lowers her head. Her forehead touches the bars. She closes her eyes. Isabela speaks again, angrier: "Why aren't you saying anything?"

Hawke forces her eyes to open. She looks at Isabela. Regret renders her speechless. When has Isabela ever looked so serious? She clears her throat. Starts to speak but the words are still lodged. She clears her throat again. "I don't…"  _trust myself to speak._

"Speak your mind, Hawke. You've never had any trouble before." Hawke remains quiet. She can see Isabela's boots moving to and fro, hear the swish of her fabric and the soft sound of leather creasing. "You know what? Forget it. It doesn't matter what you think of me because I know it isn't true."

"I know it isn't true." She continues to stare at Isabela's boots and then her own. Like a coward. She makes herself look at Isabela. "That isn't what I meant to say. I don't know why I said it." But that's a lie. She knows perfectly well why she said it. Not that it is forgivable in any way. It isn't. But admitting the rest would be to concede defeat or surrender, to be further embarrassed.

"You said it because you think I'm a whore. Is that why you've been buying me things? Giving me things? I'm not a bloody Hightown mansion, Hawke. Do you think you can buy my love?"

"No!" The thought had never occurred to her.

"But you won't apologize."

"Do you want an apology?" She wishes she could rip the bloody bars away and get into the cell with her. It would be an easy feat but Aveline would be furious. Hawke considers it and only feels further frustrated. She doesn't know how to fix this. "I'm sorry. I'm bloody sorry."

"Your sincerity knows no bounds."

"Why are you making this so difficult? Why are you pressing me to have a conversation that you don't want to have?" Her vocal chords strain. She reaches through the bars to try to catch hold of Isabela but Isabela easily dodges her grasp. Hawke doesn't know what the point had been anyway. What was she going to do? Shake her and make her understand? Or did she just want a fleeting touch? Did she think that that would magically resolve everything? Isabela turns her back to her. Hawke takes a gulp of breath. She holds it until she feels calmer. But she doesn't feel calmer. She's incensed. She has never had difficulty controlling her feelings, her emotions, burying them as necessary. Isabela makes control a challenge. "I was wrong. I didn't mean it. What I said isn't a reflection on you. It's a reflection on me. I shouldn't have asked you to stay. I shouldn't want more than what you can give. Than what you want to give." She closes her eyes again. "It can be whatever you want, Isabela. It can be glorious, absent, meaningless sex if that's all you want, that's all it has to be." She bites her inner lip. "You don't have to forgive me. But please don't be angry with me anymore."  _Please, just be with me._

"I'll be angry with you as long as I damned well please."

Hawke releases the bars. She deflates. She wants to crawl into bed and sleep. She clenches her fist and smothers the light in Isabela's cell. "Fine." She says and exits. The similar catcalls begin again. Hawke turns her eyes hatefully to one of the leering men, pushes forward with her hand. An invisible force slams him head first into the wall. He falls to the floor with a smack and goes quiet. They all do. Using magic in the Gallows. What is she thinking? She doesn't check to see if he's well. She keeps walking. He's in there for a reason. She won't bloody babysit all of bleeding Kirkwall anymore.

"Tell her it was some error with the paperwork and let her out," she tells Aveline as she leaves, she doesn't stop moving, can't make her face emotionless. She wants to hit things, break things. An energy pulses from her, angry and dark. She keeps going until she's in the Free Marches and out in empty land, away from others. She breathes but can't get enough air into her lungs.

* * *

xxx

Yes, she works with some of the women at the Blooming Rose; no, she doesn't whore. She's been out of the brig for two weeks. Business is business and sometimes it takes her to unsavory places. The Blooming Rose isn't one of them. She drinks, she flirts, she gets the goods on templars who get their goods attended to by the whores. Who has time for apostates when there is so much screwing and drinking to be done?

Isabela collects the information she needs. Anders is always indebted to her when she gets the names of the templars who visit the Blooming Rose, it helps him learn their patrols and they tend to get awful chatty when they're being 'pampered'. Isabela sets the whores up with a few paltry ointments and herbal medicines and they return the favor with information that Anders uses to run his little renegade apostate games. The coin she gets from him is nice, too, though she admittedly undercharges him.

She turns her head and sees Hawke at the bar. Gamlen isn't much further away though neither one of them seems to pay attention to the other. Isabela is perplexed. It takes her several moments to realize that she hasn't breathed, hasn't moved. Hawke's face is emotionless. No, near emotionless. There's something drab and sad about it. Isabela stares at her profile, the scar along the bridge of her nose, running onto her currently rosy cheeks. Isabela wonders if she's been drinking for long. Hawke lifts her face and for seemingly no reason turns in her direction. Shit. The plan hadn't been to be caught staring. Now she looks like some amateur. Before Isabela can consider it further Hawke returns her attention to the bartender, or to her glass.

Isabela slides into the stool next to her. Orders three consecutive shots and drinks them one after another as soon as they've been poured. They scathe her insides. She waits for a reprimand from Hawke and doesn't get it. Good. She'd just have ordered six more if she'd tried to say anything. Hawke looks straight ahead. Isabela thinks that the way they are now was the way they were for years. The thought is… irritating. Thinking is a nuisance. "You know there are more templars here than at the Gallows." She comments. The bartender nods and gives his opinion. Hawke has another drink of beer. Isabela listens to the Antivan music that flows through the establishment and feels comforted despite her uneasiness. "What are you doing here?" Isabela asks. Hawke lifts the glass. That's it? She's giving her the silent treatment?

Hawke isn't. "What are you doing here?"

"Whatever I want." She points at the shot glass. The bartender fills it. Isabela slides it between her two index fingers before downing it. Hawke's chin drops a centimeter. Her back isn't as straight as it usually is. If she looks closer, she's slumped like some wilting flower. Well, it won't work to stoke her sympathies. "Did Leandra really invite me to dinner?"

"Yes."

"Was she going to cook something?"

"The Hawkes don't cook meals for their dinners."

"Then it's a bloody good thing she's an Amell, isn't it?" she says chipperly. She taps the counter again. The bartender pours another shot.

"Should you really be doing that?"

Ah, there's that prissy Hawke she knows and… she knows. "Don't tell me what to do." She drinks it and gets another. It's too warm. She wipes at her forehead with the back of her hand. Hawke looks to her with some concern. It's there an instant and then it's gone. Another tap, another shot. Hawke gives a warning glance to the bartender. Isabela thinks to comment on it but doesn't. "Do you know that half of Lowtown thinks you fought off a grand dragon with nothing but a dagger and some lyrium dust? Varric keeps coming up with these ridiculous legends and everyone eats them up. Most of these people have never even left Kirkwall. You tell them their head is their ass and they're likely to believe it too." She scoffs. Hawke's listening to her but she doesn't look at her. "Coin, status, do you think that means anything? I'm not like these little girls wetting their knickers to be seen as some part of society; I'm not begging to be tied down. Not if it doesn't involve belts, anyway. I'm not looking to live for anyone but me."

Hawke pays her tab and leaves.

Isabela orders another five shots. She drinks four and then stops. She looks at the books of who's visited what whores. For templar names. For Anders.

* * *

xxx

It's three nights later and Isabela smells like a brewery. It emanates from her pores, from her breath, from her skin. The night is pitch black again. She's on all fours over Hawke who tries to rouse quickly but is having difficulty. She wonders, briefly, if she's only dreaming but smells don't typically accompany dreams.

The room is dark and her scent is almost masked but Hawke knows who it is, knows that she's no dream. Her heart swells painfully. She tells herself that whatever the reason for Isabela's appearance, she is happy for it. If she has a favor to demand, she will see to it, if she wants to shout at her, Hawke will make penance, if she wants to punish her she'll accept it without complaint. Isabela says 'shh'. Hawke can almost see the three letters in the air in alcohol fumes.

Hawke lifts her hands carefully, rests them on Isabela's hips to steady her. She's weaving. "Let's forget what happened," Isabela says slowly, her voice thick and enunciating every syllable. "You were stupid." Hawke nods and says 'yes'. "And I—" she chokes on the word. Hawke temporarily wonders if Isabela will vomit on her. Whatever it was that she was going to say, she shakes her head.

"I'm sorry," Hawke says again, whispers. She's afraid that Isabela will regret all of this. "Maybe we should talk when you're more—" Isabela shakes her head. Hawke's fingers graze Isabela's boots. No doubt she's treaded in something again. She'll have to wash the sheets. It doesn't matter. She'll wash all the bloody sheets. She'll forget whatever it is that Isabela wants her to forget. Hawke takes a breath. Isabela nuzzles her neck. "You make me feel so helpless." Hawke says. Isabela chuckles. She languidly, clumsily starts to pull the daggers from her back. Hawke takes her arms, touches her face and removes them, setting them aside. "You should sleep," she says quietly. Isabela shakes her head. Her lips graze Hawke's neck. "You don't have to stay here. I know you don't want that. I can walk you back to Lowtown or I can sleep in the library."

Isabela kisses her. She tastes of sweat and wine, hard liquor, smoke. Something else. Someone else…? A frown carves into her face. Her heart beats too quickly. She's nauseous. Perhaps she's just imagining it. Perhaps Isabela just ate something strange. Her lips thin. Isabela takes her face, confesses a soft apology, kisses her again.

Hawke's fingers sink like claws into Isabela's arms but neither knows she's doing it. Hawke lets her push her down. It isn't her scent anymore. It's someone else. There was someone else. Hawke shoves her back. Isabela tumbles. Hawke shoots up to a sitting position and catches Isabela before she falls off the bed. They look like lovers in a passionate embrace. Isabela's hands are on Hawke's arms, to keep her close, to push her away. In the dim light Hawke sees the golden snake tattoo on Isabela's arm. She speaks through gritted teeth. "Take a bath." Isabela's tiger stone eyes sober and flicker. Hawke lets her go. Isabela falls back on the bed. She gets up unsteadily. Her steps are uneven. "Can you run it?" she asks when Isabela hesitates at the bathroom door and stares at her.

Isabela nods.

"Take a bath." Hawke repeats. "I'll check on you later." She turns away and looks into the fireplace. "To make sure you haven't drowned." The fireplace crackles steadily. The bathroom door has shut when Hawke purges into the fireplace. It sizzles on the heat. Bile fills her mouth and nose but she prefers the acidic taste. She curls her fingers, hunched over on the floor.

Forget what happened. They can both forget what happened. They will both forget what happened. But first Isabela needs a bath. Hawke retches again.

* * *

xxx

"Hawke," she said. "I do want to be with you."

Hawke didn’t check on her. She'd sobered some. She'd been more sober than Hawke suspected. She wouldn't have drowned. She'd never let herself drown. Not if it isn't at sea she wouldn't.

She wore a white robe. Her skin shone. Everything was clean, as clean as it'd ever been. She'd taken measures. But Isabela smelled vomit.

Hawke had walked to her. Looked at her as if she didn't recognize her. Had touched her hair, her face as if to verify that it was really her. Had turned her head when Isabela had tried to kiss her. Isabela couldn't pinpoint the exact reason but she could guess two. Hawke hugged her. Isabela returned it. Her fingers wouldn't stop shaking. "Okay," Hawke said.

Isabela retreads the memory over and over again.  _Forget it_ , she tells herself.  _Focus._

Isabela rewrites the scene with Aveline and Donnic. She rewrites it several times but takes neither joy nor satisfaction from it. She frowns at the paper and scribbles out the lines. She can't make it right. Maybe she needs to put it away and pick it back up again later. She sets the paper and quill on the nightstand beside the bed.

Hawke is some feet away at Isabela's poorly made desk. She's been reading one of her books for hours, silently turning the page every few minutes or so. Isabela had invited her over and she'd come over and read. Isabela wondered if Hawke would grow tired of the books and attack her. But she hasn't grown tired of the books. Isabela wishes that Hawke would attack her. Isabela wonders if Hawke knows better now.

She bites her lip. Hawke's back is visible through her pale shift. She isn't muscled. Isabela sees the bones where the wings would come out if she was really some blighted demon like the idiot templars think. Or a bird. Isabela pulls the kerchief from her head and gets to her feet. She's barefoot but the floor is clean—she swept earlier.

She sneaks up behind Hawke. Wraps her arms around her shoulders. Hawke tenses. Isabela counts the seconds, how long she's stiff before her muscles begin to relax and soften. Twelve seconds. "Don't you have better things to do than read?" Despite her effort her words lack their usual playfulness. Hawke touches Isabela's arm once before it falls beside the book again. Isabela looks at the diagrams in the book, at the mathematical figures and the seemingly endless string of very tiny words. Isabela looks back to Hawke's face but Hawke's attention is still on the text.

Isabela shuts it. Hawke makes an exasperated expression. She touches the cover but doesn't open it. Isabela considers it a peace offering. She slides in between the small space of the desk and sits on Hawke's lap, her arm circled around her neck. It wasn't too long ago that she'd been seated much the same in Hawke's bedroom. Hawke had looked at her differently then. Isabela had said they could forget everything but she can see on Hawke's face that she's forgotten nothing. Isabela has forgotten the cause; she can't forget the effect.

She takes Hawke's face in her hands gently and then lets her go. "Does Leandra still want to invite me to dinner?"

"I believe so."

"So everyone's… receptive to my attendance?"

"Everyone. Except Sandal. He despises you, you know. You see that dim witted face of his. His blue eyes. That guileless smile. But he loathes you. He really does."

Isabela shivers. "Your jokes could use some work."

"Sorry. I'm not up to form lately."

"Mh." Isabela leans into her. She knows that she smells of perfumes and soaps. She wants Hawke to know it too. Hawke who smells like the coal and ash of Lowtown, of burning furnaces. She could use a bath but it's only being in Lowtown with her that makes her smell that way. She's usually the one with the perfumed water. Isabela teases at the neckline of Hawke's shirt. "We… haven't been together in a while."

"We're together now."

"You know what I mean." Of course Hawke knows what she means. They'd been separated near a month when Isabela finally made her way to her bedroom that night. It's been another three weeks since then. Qunari delegates have been found, murdered by templar zealots and Hawke who looks more and more weathered by the week hasn't taken advantage of her. Not that it's necessarily taking advantage if she wants her to. Isabela presses her forehead to Hawke's. "Damn it. Why do you have to confuse things?"

"What have I confused? I'm perfectly clear on where we stand."

Isabela isn't. "Won't you just kiss me?"

"Is that code for take-me-to-bed-and-fuck-my-mind-into-oblivion?" Hawke smiles but her eyes remain flat. Isabela returns a smile empty of mirth. "I don't know if I have the energy for that."

She's always had the energy for that. "I'm sure there's some buried deep within. Let me draw it out of you." She leans in to kiss her but her lips graze her cheek instead. Isabela kisses it, the corner of her scar, kisses her ear, her jaw, hesitates when her lips brush Hawke's. This is stupid. She shouldn't be acting like either one of them's a virgin.  _Should you be acting like either one of you is innocent?_  She thinks one of them is more innocent than the other. Hawke's eyes are far away.

Isabela stands. She takes Hawke's hands and pulls her to her feet. Hawke does look tired. "You don't have to stay." She tells Hawke. She doesn't know whose benefit she says it for. She does want Hawke to stay. She wants her to stay long enough to pull her clothes off and be with her.

Hawke smiles gratefully. "I should sleep." She picks up her books and opens the door. "Oh. I know you've been worried. But Sandal doesn't hate you one bit. I don't think he's capable of hating anything." Another soft smile, a goodnight and she's out the door.

Isabela doesn't care what Sandal's capable of.

* * *

xxx

"Did you invite Isabela to dinner?" Leandra asks. She moves around Hawke who stands at the kitchen counter looking through a recipe book. She'd made the suggestion nearly two months ago, to help smooth things out between them. Leandra looks through the jarred items in the cupboards, no doubt imagining what dinner she might cook up. She twists her lips in displeasure, finding something that has outlived its use. She puts it to the side and Hawke makes a mental note to throw it out later.

Hawke turns the pages, remembering which recipes her father had loved most, the ones that Carver would have second and thirds of (in the times when they could afford such things) and the ones that she and Bethany had the most fun cooking together. The book depresses her. She closes it. "Yes. I invited her."

"Well?" She looks to her anxiously, two spice jars in her hands. She studies the label of one and sets it back in the cabinet before turning to her. "What did she say? Will she join us?"

"I'm not sure." She doesn't know how the matter was settled. Hawke told Isabela about the invitation while Isabela was in the brig. She'd seemed to laugh at it at the time. Then, more recently, Isabela had asked if the invitation was still on the table. Whatever her answer was, Hawke doesn't know it. Or maybe she's forgotten.

"Why aren't you sure, love? You mustn't forget to get a response when you invite people over. Now I'm not sure what to prepare. I'll go to the market. You go track her down," she says taking hold of Hawke's shoulders and pushing her out of the kitchen, "and get a proper response. I'll pick up a few things. And if she can't make it tonight I'll make something for the both of us."

Hawke lets her mother usher her out of the room. "It isn't necessary," she says.

"That's nonsense. You have been in a state. There's nothing a good dinner and conversation can't cure."

Hawke looks at her mother who is so hopeful and cheered by the idea that Hawke can't bear to go into the details. Leandra taps her cheek lovingly. "Go on, what are you waiting for?"

Hawke thinks to argue but she doesn't. She forces a smile. Her mother is excited about this. She should be too. "Very well, Mother."

* * *

xxx

The butcher hands Leandra several pieces of red meat wrapped in wax paper and tied with brown twine. Blood seeps through the small opening, getting on her arm, spotting her dress. Isabela rushes forward with a small cloth and wipes the blood from her arm. Leandra looks to her with surprise and gratitude. Isabela grins, showing her the cloth and then folding it. "I thought that was you I saw coming in here." Isabela looks to the slabs of meat that sit on display and on hooks. "Every time I'm missing a meal from Rivain or Antiva I come in here and imagine what sumptuous feast the cooks in Rivain might make. The cooks at the Hanged Man aren't much better than the ones in Fereldan," she says with a roll of her eyes.

"Oh, not all Fereldan cooks are bad!" Leandra says with a laugh. "Maybe you weren't eating at the right places. I can make a meal that will make you give credit where it's due to Fereldan cooking."

"That's a bold statement." Isabela smiles, grabs a netted sack from the counter. "Here, put those in here. You've already got blood on your dress," she says with a light frown. "I know just the trick to get it out," she says holding the bag as Leandra deposits the meat into the sack.

"What's a little blood," Leandra dismisses. "I'm so happy to see you. I was telling Viktoria only hours ago to go find you and invite you to dinner. Did she find you?" Isabela shakes her head. She hasn't seen Hawke in a few days and it's making her anxious. In all fairness, Hawke is due rest but Isabela is unsure if that's what she's been doing. What's she been curling up with? Books? Something else? Someone else? "You'll come to dinner, won't you?

"I'm not sure…" Isabela tries to think of an excuse. "I was meant to meet some people tonight. I have… business," she says lamely, awkwardly holding Leandra's bag of meat in her arms.

"Don't be silly, you can do that any other night. How often will you have someone offering you a fine cooked meal free of charge? Viktoria would love to see you." Isabela doubts Leandra's words. She can only imagine that Hawke has told her nothing of what's happened, just as she's told no other of their companions. Varric, Aveline and the others look at her just the same. It isn't as if Isabela would be ashamed of it. They're nothing to each other. Her stomach is in knots. "I have some vegetables to pick up. Walk with me," Leandra says. She exits the butcher shop, the store bell cheerfully jangling after her.

Isabela follows. She never did this with her mother. Walked with her mother. Then again, they didn't have the means for fresh ingredients. She recalls having to steal most of their meals, having to dig through others trash. Maybe she shouldn't be angry at her mother. Maybe it was only the circumstances.  _That's bullocks; you know exactly who your mother was._ The Hawkes had a rough first year in Kirkwall. They didn't resort to whoring each other out. Well, Gamlen did sell Hawke and Carver into servitude but he's an Amell. "What do you like to eat?" Leandra asks her.

Isabela blinks and looks at her, as they walk through the various merchant stands. "I'm not too picky," she smiles wryly. She shifts the bag of meat in her arms, declining Leandra's offer to carry it. "What do you like?"

Leandra shows her, picking up various vegetables and fruit, showing Isabela how to make sure they're ripe, how they taste best when prepared. A burning embarrassment prods at Isabela. Shouldn't she know these things? Oh, she's a pirate, not a cook. It doesn't matter. She files away Leandra's advice, though she isn't sure why. "I think I will come to dinner," she tells Leandra, "if the offer is still on the table."

Leandra laughs and squeezes Isabela's arm. "Of course it is, silly girl. Come this way, there's a few more items I need."

Isabela smiles and follows after her.

* * *

xxx

Leandra is humming in the kitchen. Hawke wonders if she was close minded in thinking that her mother would never care for Isabela. She'd been surprised to see the two of them walk in, bags of food in their arms, engaged in some conversation that had stopped somewhat abruptly after Isabela had spotted Hawke. Leandra hadn't been deterred and had continued in her cheerful way, telling some story of an uppity clerk at a boutique. Isabela had smiled helplessly at Hawke and followed after her, helping her lay the items out. Hawke had eventually joined in, taking out the small bags of wrapped meat and setting them vertically on the kitchen counter.

Hawke feels foolishly hopeful to see the two of them getting along. She hates her persistent, romantic ideas. She's never considered her family's opinion of any lover she might take. She never thought she'd have anything more than sex partners. Certainly never anyone that would stay in her life. Every day of her existence she's borne the hatred of others without thinking anything of it. She's a mage. Who could ever love her? Isabela has simply fallen into the future, however temporary, that Hawke had envisioned for herself. It doesn't matter what outcome Hawke wishes. She'll be satisfied with this. She has to be. Any anger she harbors, she tries to shed and not think about. She thinks that she has been successful.

"Don't think you're getting away doing nothing," Leandra's voice calls to Hawke who hangs at the kitchen doorway. Hawke looks to her mother. The packets of meat are in front of her, a butcher knife to the side. "I'll expect you to make a loaf of bread at the very least."

Hawke smiles. "Maybe Sandal has a bread enchantment available that I could usurp. It would be so much cleaner than all that flour and sticky dough."

"I won't have any of that lazy attitude from you, Viktoria," Leandra says, waving the knife at Hawke menacingly. Hawke laughs. The idea of her mother as a threat is ludicrous. "I'll have you make two loaves at this rate. Yes, that's just what we'll do. Isabela can take one with her."

"Isabela doesn't need any more bread," Hawke says.

"What are you trying to say?" Isabela asks. "Was that a comment on my figure?"

They all laugh. Some of the tension that hangs in the air dissipates. "I can't think of anyone who'd complain about that," Hawke says softly. Leandra elbows Isabela playfully in the ribs. Hawke's cheeks warm. She clears her throat. "What's for dinner, Mother? Will it be your famous stew?" she comes cautiously closer to the both of them and speaks to Isabela without looking at her. "There are some rumors that Loghain betrayed King Cailan's armies for just one bowl of this beef stew."

"Stew?" Isabela asks. "It's just meat and random things thrown together, isn't it? When you're all out of other things to make a proper meal?"

"Ah, that's what you'd think," Leandra says. "But this meal holds no peer."

"Trust me," Hawke says, "I'm salivating already. But there is bad news. I looked in the wine cellar and we're all out."

Isabela looks at her questioningly. Leandra's eyebrows arch. "How did that happen? We haven't thrown any parties lately."

"Maybe Sandal's been getting into it. Or this one," Hawke says, inclining her head to Isabela. Isabela scoffs. "So… I'm going to make a quick run. Is there anything else you need?" They all demur. Hawke kisses Leandra's cheek. She's at the kitchen door when Leandra stops her.

"You can give your girl a kiss, Viktoria. It's not as if I don't know you don't do that and more," Leandra teases with a laugh. Isabela laughs softly. "Look at her blush! Oh, Isabela. You'll have to be over more often. I thought Viktoria was impervious to all teasing."

"Not all of it," Isabela says with a grin, "I could tell you stories."

"Please don't," Hawke goes to them. She wags her finger at her mother disapprovingly but can't help but break into a grin at the last moment. Who knew Isabela would be a bad influence on her mother? She leans down and kisses Isabela's cheek. Her lips lingering longer than she'd meant them to. Isabela drops her gaze a moment later. "I'll be back soon," Hawke says.

* * *

xxx

Small potatoes are slippery little bastards to peel. Isabela glares at them. It's a positive that she has a talent with knives. It's too bad her talent for other slippery things don't translate to the potatoes. She stands side by side with Leandra and listens to the rhythmic chopping of the other woman. Wasn't the point that Leandra would make her a meal? Why is she helping prepare it?

It doesn't really bother her.

Isabela listens absent-mindedly at first and then more actively as Leandra tells her about how she used to prepare this meal for Bethany and Carver. "I know it isn't the fanciest meal, but we all used to eat it together." Isabela thinks that she never knew her father. Never knew what meals he may have cared for, what other children he might have had. Eating at a table with family is a strange idea. She had the men on her ship. They were family. They were enough. It's the same thing. It's better than the real thing. She glances at Leandra. Sometimes, anyway.

Isabela asks about Malcolm and Bethany, she asks about Carver when he was younger. She asks Leandra, though she's never asked Hawke. Hawke can be difficult to talk to. Anyway… talking isn't their strong suit.

Leandra tells Isabela about the family, her expression and words sweet with memories. The Hawke family sounded like a good family. "What are your parents like? Do you have a pesky, meddling mother like Viktoria does?" Leandra asks. She cuts into an onion, thwack, thwack, thwack.

Isabela remembers one of the cooks on the Siren's Call telling her that the duller the knife, the more the onion would make your eyes tear up. The knife is sharp and Isabela's eyes are unaffected. She shrugs in response but it isn't enough of an answer. Leandra continues to chop and doesn't ask again. Eventually Isabela says: "They weren't like you."

"You're a lovely woman."

It's a response but it isn't. Isabela doesn't agree with Leandra's assessment. She continues to peel the potatoes. "I'm still alive. There's something to be said for that." People don't just learn to survive. They have to fight. They have to be cunning. They need coin. Hawke always dismisses coin because she has it and has other means of staying alive but others don't. Hawke doesn't understand the simplest of things. Isabela thinks again that Hawke can be cripplingly naïve. Leandra has been quiet. She wonders if Leandra took the remark badly, having dead children and a dead husband. Apologizing for any perceived insult isn't giving Leandra enough credit. The woman hasn't turned into a hysterical mess despite her circumstances. There's something to be said for that. Her thoughts turn to the Tome of Koslun. She peels the potatoes hastily, taking too much potato away and not enough skin. She forces herself to slow.

"Sometimes survival is all you have." Leandra says. She starts to boil a large pot full of water. "Viktoria and I have been alone for so many years now. Surviving. For a time that was enough. This house is so large, so empty with just the two of us. There's Bodahn and Sandal of course but surely you must know what I mean." Isabela doesn't. She's spent the majority of her life not sharing anything. Except when she lived with her husband. It was strange having a husband. She was only a girl. An actual one, not the way that Leandra speaks about her or Hawke. She remembers the sight of his dead body. Thwack, thwack, thwack. Leandra gathers the onions and drops them into the pot. "But you're here now."

Isabela looks at her and resumes peeling, clumsily. "Just for dinner," she says, a grin more like a grimace.

"I don't mean to pressure you." She sighs. She tells her, confidentially of a man she's met, a handsome man whom has taken an interest in her. A gentleman in her own age group. He finds her charming, her stories interesting, the fact that she has an adult daughter not troubling. "He isn't a noble."

Isabela smirks. "Is he a mage?"

"He isn't. I can't imagine why he has an interest in me," she says in a happy daze.

Isabela begins to cube the potatoes. "You can't imagine why someone might fancy a beautiful, sweet thing like you?"

Leandra smiles bashfully. "I see how you charmed my daughter!" She opens the meat packs one by one and begins to cube the meat. "I have talked with her some about it but I don't want her to think I'm replacing her father. And who wants to hear about their mother's love life?"

"What Hawke wants most is for you to be happy." Isabela doesn't question that for a minute.

"She's a sweet girl. That doesn't always show. It's my fault, really. She took up the burden of responsibility after Malcolm died and I let her. She spends so much time fussing after me."

"It would be criminal not to fuss over you." Isabela understands now why Hawke killed Dougal without flinching.

Leandra blanches. "She could stand to do less of it. I know it isn't my place. I don't know what Viktoria said or did all those weeks ago but she was absolutely beside herself. I know she's sorry. If you can find it in you to forgive her—"

Isabela looks at her strangely. She clears her throat and finishes cubing the last of the potatoes. She smiles bittersweetly, and speaks softly. "I've already forgiven her."

"Have you? Does she know? She's looked out of sorts for the last while."

There's a rapping at the kitchen entryway. She and Leandra turn back. Hawke waves two bottles of red wine. Isabela wonders if it's only a coincidence that Hawke happens to be holding one of her favorites. It must be. "I hope I'm not interrupting," Hawke says. She sets the bottles down on the table and goes to stand between. "I got your favorite," she says to Leandra, "but try not to drink the entire bottle in one sitting."

Leandra shoos her away. Hawke laughs. The happy sound is genuine. Isabela hardly recognizes it coming out of Hawke. Isabela expects the joy to disappear from Hawke's face when she looks at her. It doesn't entirely. Something about her features and her happiness becomes muted and stifled. Hawke touches Isabela's hair gingerly. "Thank you for helping Mother with dinner."

Isabela doesn't remember her response. When Hawke looks at her the way that she does now, she can believe that Hawke would be foolish enough to love her again.

* * *

xxx

Dinner is finished. She tries to clean up but the girls won't hear of it. Viktoria forces her to sit. Isabela sets the bottle of wine in front of Leandra and refills her glass. "If you want to drink the whole blighted bottle, it's  _your_ right. And the least you're entitled for putting up with such a miserly daughter."

"I really am a wretch," Viktoria concedes.

Isabela pulls her gloves away and Viktoria rolls up her sleeves. They wash dishes but say little. It worries Leandra. She is comforted by their lingering glances when the other isn't looking. She hopes they will be fine. She thinks they will be fine.

She drinks wine.

After everything in the kitchen gleams, Viktoria says: "I forgot to make the bread." Isabela tells her to forget the bread. Viktoria ignores her and sifts through the cabinet, pulling out the flour and the other items, making another mess.

Isabela warns Viktoria that she'll be doing the cleanup this time and slides into the chair opposite of Leandra. They talk about nothing that matters. Leandra sometimes thinks those are the best conversations to have. The ones about nothing in particular. Viktoria joins them and they chat, briefly about the Qunari threat. Viktoria has told her not to go to the docks, to stay in Hightown if she can help it, to go to the templars first and the guard second if she ever needs her and she isn't near. Unless, of course, Aveline is handy. But no one else, she says. "Mother's a bleeding heart," Viktoria explains to Isabela.

"I can't imagine where you get it from," Isabela says dryly.

The dough has risen. Viktoria put it into the oven. Leandra is three quarters of the way through the bottle of wine. With Isabela's encouragement, she finishes it. She remembers when she was young and she spent the nights with Malcolm. They had been wild and reckless then, daring. They had partied so much. He had brought her so much excitement. She misses him and it makes her feel tired. She tells them she's turning in. "Take the leftovers," Leandra tells Isabela. Isabela assures her that she will. Leandra believes her and thanks her for joining them, for her company. She bids her goodnight. Her daughter gets to her feet and walks with her to the stairwell. Bodahn and Sandal have turned in for the night. "I like her very much," Leandra tells her daughter. She can see that whatever it is that troubles Viktoria is still there but has begun to subside. "You need someone like that to pull you out of yourself. To pull you back to yourself." To anchor her.

"That makes no sense."

Leandra touches her face. Viktoria is old enough to marry. There are women her age with children near ten years old. Viktoria's priority has seemed, for too long, to care for her and their family. It's time she did something else. It's time she lived for someone else. For someone, not a city-state. Maybe it won't be Isabela but hasn't she hindered her daughter's life enough? Perhaps she'll marry Quentin and leave her daughter in peace to finally live her own life. Quentin will never be Malcolm but perhaps in time she will grow to love him. She's lonely and has no one to confide in. "She has a good heart." Leandra says. Viktoria parts her lips. Her ever argumentative, pessimistic daughter is ready to present an argument. Leandra counters it: "She will. She will, love."

Viktoria hugs her impulsively. She holds on longer than usual. Then pulls away as if embarrassed by her surge of affection. "You've had too much wine!" Viktoria scolds. "It makes you sentimental…" but her dear one smiles. "Do you need help getting upstairs?" Leandra scowls and reminds her daughter that she isn't that old. "Goodnight, then… Thank you… for tonight. I know it's silly…" she scratches at her scar. Leandra doesn't think that Viktoria ever knows she does it when she's nervous or embarrassed, "but it was nice seeing the two of you like that."

"You deserve happiness, Viktoria. Don't you know that?" It pains her that she has to ask. It pains her that Viktoria doesn't answer for so long.

"I am happy," her daughter says.

No words could make a mother happier.

* * *

xxx

Hawke watches her mother go up the stairs, towards the brightness before disappearing in the dark shadow that's her room. She returns to the kitchen not long after. Isabela is seated on a kitchen counter beside the sink, the bottle of wine Hawke had purchased for her in hand. "Did you remember this is my favorite?" Isabela asks.

"Is it?" It is.

Isabela smiles ironically and gives a small shake of her head. "Leandra's sweet." She takes a delicate swig of wine. "Much too sweet to suffer you for a daughter."

Hawke begins to pick up the mess she's made, wiping the flour from the counters, scraping away the dough that has hardened. "She likes you."

"She's great." Isabela says so as if she's made a shameful statement. Hawke continues to clean the counters, running the water to clean several bowls and a stone plate. "Not everyone gets a mother like that."

"If you had, we'd be sisters."

"I wouldn't tell if you didn't."

Hawke slips the oven mitts on and opens the oven. She pulls out the bread and frowns at it. "I made it wrong." She says aloud, not particularly to Isabela. It's only half formed. It didn't rise properly. It vexes her more than it should. She pulls it out of the pan angrily and glares at it on the counter.

"It's just bread."

"It's the one bloody thing Mother asked me to do this evening." She begins looking through the cabinets again, beginning to pull out the flour and other items. Isabela extends the bottle of wine to her but Hawke shakes her head. "I've ruined it all." Isabela touches Hawke's shoulder. Hawke stops her frantic movement of trying to quickly dry the measuring cups. She sets them down and lowers her head. Isabela's nails trail lightly over the nape of her neck. Hawke closes her eyes. "I'll make the bread later," she says quietly.

"Okay."

Hawke lifts her head. Isabela looks out of place sitting on a kitchen counter but the sight is welcome none-the-less. She came to dinner, willingly and had beguiled her mother. Whatever their differences, whatever Hawke's ideas, she finds herself suffused with feelings for Isabela. She slides her hands up Isabela's legs until they come to a stop at her waist. Isabela's smile is something more than a smirk. Something better than that.

Hawke tilts her head up at the precise moment Isabela brings hers down. Their mouths meet softly. A kiss; a triumph.

Isabela touches her tongue to the tip of her thumb and wipes at Hawke's cheek. She's got blood on her face. Hawke looks at her cards, looks at her, smiles and looks back to the cards. Varric throws several coins on the table. Merrill, beside him, looks more and more agitated. Isabela reaches out, takes her hand. Merrill smiles in her nervous way, her cheeks flaring red. At least she's gotten the two of them to sit together at a table now—that's a start. She wonders if Merrill is angry at her.

She  _is_ with Hawke. Can't deny that now, not really, even if she wanted to. She fidgets and settles her hand on Hawke's knee, leaves it there. She looks at Merrill. "I've got a good feeling about you tonight, Kitten," she says.

"Oh, I don't know…" Merrill pulls the cards closer to her face. It looks as if she's trying to hide but Isabela doesn't know that she is. "I think I'm missing cards…"

Isabela looks at Merrill's hand and sees that she is indeed missing about three. Isabela gives her the three best cards from her stack. It wouldn't hurt Merrill to win a card game every now and then. If she cheats, Merrill should too. Maybe she only wants Merrill to forgive her.

If anyone else talked to Merrill the way Hawke does, Isabela would slam them head first into a table several times over. She doesn't know why being with Hawke makes her act like somebody else. She doesn't like it. But she doesn't know how to explain to Merrill that Hawke can be good. Better than her, anyway.

"You hear that, Hawke?" Varric asks. "Rivaini's pinning her hopes on Daisy." He finishes his pint, looking at the glass with displeasure. Merrill pushes her glass towards him. He takes it, appreciatively. "You won't take Daisy's money, will you?" he says to Hawke. "Who can resist that face?"

Hawke scowls. Isabela lights her hand on Hawke's head, trailing her fingers casually through her hair. Some of the tension leaves Hawke's shoulders. "Don't mind her pouting face; she's just weary from fighting bandits all day."

"I'm  _weary_  of tolerating blood mages that others dote on," Hawke says. Isabela sees Merrill and Varric frown. "I'm tired." Hawke throws her cards down and stands up suddenly. Isabela's hand falls to the bench Hawke had been sitting on. "Look, I don't mean to be rude—"

"You're doing a damn fine job of it," Isabela says. Why do they have to fight? She can't put any of the blame on Merrill who doesn't antagonize her. Sure, blood mages are bad but are they worse than raiders or bandits or slavers? She knows how Hawke would answer. She stands and sidles up to her. Varric touches Merrill's arm, no doubt telling her something reassuring. Isabela doesn't miss the dark look he shoots at Hawke. It really is sweet how protective he is of her. "Why can't you ever try?" she asks softly, a hand to Hawke's chest.

"I'm tired. I've been out all day. I don't want to spend the little free time I have making nice with her. I don't like her. You do. I don't understand it." Hawke sees her frown, sighs. "I'm going to go. Stay. Have fun." She kisses her.

It's the first time Hawke has kissed her in front of anyone. Isabela goes both hot and cold. Hawke starts to leave but Isabela takes her hand, kisses her again. Varric whistles. Isabela smirks at him. Merrill looks uncomfortable. Isabela feels like a bitch. "You need a bath," she tells Hawke. And to change her clothes. She wonders if Hawke will ever remember that she's a mage, that she doesn't have to get in the thick of it in battle. "Maybe I'll help you take one later? If… you're agreeable?"

Hawke smiles tiredly. "You don't have to ask."

* * *

xxx

Maybe she should have just gone to Isabela's room. No. She doesn't want to pressure her. Isabela is free to come and go as she pleases. If Isabela doesn't visit tonight, Hawke won't be devastated. She's exhausted. She's only happy that things are friendly again between them. Nothing else matters. She fumbles with the key to the Hawke estate. Her muscles ache. She wants only to sit and to rest.

The mansion is warm and comfortable. The Mabari bounds over to her; Hawke pets him half-heartedly and moves further in. Gamlen is in the living room, pacing and agitated. Hawke doesn't see her mother.

There are white lilies on the table.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Thanks to Opa for reminding me to update this. I realized why it took me so long to post this. How did I post the initial copy of this chapter? Uuuugh. Regardless, I've done a lot of cleaning... (though not as much as I'd like or I'll just have to rewrite the damn thing) so here is this very, very long chapter. 

xxx

There are corpses everywhere about her, including Quentin's. A blood mage. Abominations. They don't matter. Nothing matters. Only one person matters. Her dying mother, motherly until the end, focusing on her when she's in her condition.

"I'm free. I get to see Bethany, Carver and your father. But you'll be here alone."

Hawke speaks, somehow. "I should have watched over you more closely. I should..." She holds her closer. Too late. Once more she was too late. Her mother is going to die. Her mother is going to die and she will be all alone. She accepts it, that bitter, choking pill.

"My little girl has become so strong. I love you. You've always made me so proud."

No. Why? Her throat is parched. "Mother…" the words are hardly there. "I'm sorry."

Leandra gives Hawke's hand the lightest of squeezes, one last encouragement, then dies.

Hawke fixates on the stitches in her mother's neck. Her skin is gray and patchy. Her eyes milky and vacant. Hawke is still. She stares at her dead mother. Realizes that it isn't her mother, really, but a collection of women with her mother's head attached. Aveline and Isabela's eyes are wet but Hawke doesn't know that. Her eyes are dry. She sees clearly. This can’t be real. Why should she cry?

At one point she sees her mother take in a breath and release it, alive again! Hawke's heart soars, she pulls her closer. She's only imagined it.

She is strangled, bottlenecked with despair. Nothing comes out. Her mother is dead and she is too tired to grieve. That must be why she doesn't cry.

Hands on her shoulder, familiar voices talking to her, unrecognizable whispers entreating her, soothing her, calling to her. Hawke shrugs them all away.

* * *

 

xxx

The sky is appropriately moody with dark, ominous clouds. Varric walks Hightown en route to the Hawke estate. Everyone is going about their business unaware or uncaring that their fearless hero's mother has just been butchered. Hardly anyone from their group has bothered showing up at the Hanged Man—a strange occurrence given that it's the perfect excuse to get plastered.

Poor Leandra. No one deserves a death like that. Isabela and the others tease him for watching over their lovable band of misfits, but he's not going to ignore Hawke now just to prove himself a dwarven stereotype.

He hasn't seen Hawke since it happened. Rivaini told him that Hawke was 'fine'. No one is 'fine' after something like that. Not even Hawke. Hawke who has lost the last of her family to a blood mage. He's warned Daisy not to go near her. Merrill protested, claiming she had an urgent matter to speak to Hawke about but ultimately relented. She'll put it off for as long as she can. Isabela thinks he's worrying too much.

Varric doesn't agree. He arrives at Hawke's home and walks in. The annoyingly-servile Bodahn and the dimwitted Sandal are nowhere to be seen. Varric wonders if all dwarves have to be so irritating, too stingy, too greedy, too servile, too stupid—maybe he's too choosy. It's cold in the estate. No fires burn. Leandra's absence shows.

He hears the sound of dishes being moved and goes to the kitchen. The smell of fresh bread permeates the air. There's a fresh stack of it, as well as several containers lined up with precision along the counters. Hawke's back is to him. He doesn't think she's left the house since returning after Leandra's death three days ago.

"That's enough bread to make you, Blondie and Daisy fill out more than a broodmother."

"Hello, Varric."

Varric winces. In all the time he's known Hawke, he's never heard her so calm, so without feeling. He can only stare up at her slender figure, her back still to him, and imagine what she looks like. Rivaini should be here. She'd told him Hawke was unresponsive and that she didn't 'know how to deal with this'. Great. So it's up to him now. "The Choir Boy wants to hold a memorial for your mother. Typically I'd tell him to stuff it but it's a nice thought. We could all get together…" He doesn't know how to proceed. His fabled silver tongue is failing him. "It might help."

"It's unnecessary." The same flat, emotionless voice.

"There's a question of the burial," he continues, his voice gravelly. "We can get a nice headstone and set it outside. One of the best, something proper for her. You could visit it and Leandra would probably like being by her childhood home, to watch over you."

"That's fine."

"Yeah… well the thing is… Some of the other women that Quentin murdered… well. Everyone wants the body. Their families." Shit. He should have rehearsed this. He doesn't want to get into the details of how they'd go about getting them back. Then what? Detach Leandra's head and dig through the slew of corpses to reattach her head? Shit, where's the Maker now?

"I understand."

Does she? "Sebastian would like to perform a ceremony. Commend her soul to the Maker." He laughs dryly. The stupid idiot had a lot of nerve. He wasn't even ballsy enough to present the idea to Hawke himself, he had to propose it to Varric first—as if he liked the damn kid! "I told him—"

"That might be nice." She opens the oven and pulls out another loaf of bread. It's golden and perfect. She stacks it on top of the other, he counts, ten loaves. "We never did anything for Bethany or Carver. I'd hate for her to think that I didn't care."

"She knew, Hawke." He sees her throw some more flour on the counter, add water. "More bread?" She doesn't respond. "I'm worried about you. There, you got me to admit it."

"Don't be. I'm alive."

"Let's go for a walk."

"No."

"I'm not leaving here until you at least let me see your face." She pushes at the bread, pulls at it. "And if you want to pretend I'm flirting with you, fine, I'm flirting with you. I just want to see that you haven't—turned into some kind of abomination or something." He says with a nervous laugh.

Hawke stops the kneading and turns around. Her eyes are shadowed black. Her irises are dark, a deep blue unlike the usual icy paleness to her eyes. She has wet dough on her hands. "Satisfied?" she asks. She turns around again.

No, he isn't satisfied. Not one damn bit. "I hope you don't mind if I stick around for a bit. I don't have those long legs like you humans do. Walking up here takes twice as long as it does for you. I built up an appetite," he reaches for one of the loaves of bread. Hawke slaps his hand back viciously, without looking, without seemingly caring. Varric bites back a yelp and rubs at his hand tenderly.

"That isn't yours," she says finally, a hint of emotion in her voice, an undercurrent of hate.

* * *

 

xxx

The distraction is out of the way.

Sebastian doesn't approve of Hawke's actions, the way she'd brutally grabbed Merrill by the shoulders and physically forced her away from the Hawke estate property, shoving her until Merrill slammed into the cobblestones. Merrill's eyes filled with emotional, frustrated tears. Hawke's own expression had remained absent, as if forgetting to present itself.

The ceremony commenced. The headstone that Hawke purchased is, in his opinion, too extravagant. Leandra's soul will not be at the Maker's side any more hastily for the pricy coin that was paid. The attributes most important in the eyes of the Maker are humility and faith. He suspects that Hawke knows this. She is a good person and has done much for Kirkwall despite her sometimes questionable methods.

Fenris, Varric, Bodahn, Sandal, Gamlen, Aveline and Isabela. Sebastian takes in all their faces The last two, he can see, are uncomfortable with emotion, indicated by their shifting, how they gauge the reactions of others. His eyes fall at last to Hawke. Her eyes are flat as if she stares at nothing. There's something else: she turns her head suddenly from time to time, as if having heard something that remains elusive and unclear.

Everyone offers some words for Leandra, all but Hawke who says nothing at all.

Sebastian will pray for the soul of her departed family. He will pray especially fervently for the soul of Viktoria Hawke; he fears that it is in danger of becoming lost to something darker, something more sinister than even Quentin.

* * *

xxx

Isabela touches the flowers on Leandra's tombstone. They've already begun to wilt. Maybe it's due to the brightness of the sun. It makes her eyes hurt. She squints at them. Why did it have to be Leandra? Why not her own mother or someone like her? Leandra had been kind to her without having reason to be. Isabela had been looking forward to more dinners, to more shopping trips. And just like that she's gone.

She pads lightly across the grass of the small enclosed yard in the back and enters Hawke's home. The memorial has been over for hours now. Isabela found Merrill, confirmed she’s all right outside of a few bumps and bruises, and returned to Hightown. Varric was right after all—it’s best Merrill stay away from Hawke.

Normally Isabela would be furious. In some ways, she still is. But how to address it? The truth is that she's seen Aveline and Merrill react more to Leandra's death than Hawke has. Isabela tried to comfort Hawke that night, told her that family wasn't always blood related. Leandra acted more like a mother to her than her own mother, after all…

Hawke said little. Just: "You're all I have now," then apologized and left the room. Isabela didn't wait long before departing. Who would want company then anyway? It isn't as if she could have fixed it. Who can fix something like that?

Hawke is in the library. All the books are off the shelves and on the floor. She tells Isabela that she's putting them in alphabetical order. She’s paler than Isabela is used to, looking ill and tired. Isabela takes the books from Hawke and sets them carelessly on the shelf. Hawke takes them the moment they're set down and returns them to the stack of books. "I want to talk to you," Isabela says. Hawke looks at her and continues filing the books on the shelves, thick red bound leather books, thin papers tied together by only string. "I know you're upset but I don't like what happened with Merrill earlier. She liked Leandra. Everyone did. You can't treat her that way because… well… because of Quentin. Varric said he was worried about it and I thought he was being a prissy old hen and here it turns out he was right and I was wrong. And I really do hate it when I'm wrong."

Hawke continues to file books.

"Look…" Isabela starts awkwardly, the silence unsettling her, "I know I'm not good at… talking…" she pulls a hand nervously through her hair and looks at the books instead of Hawke. "But… if you do want to talk," she lets the words fall away as if she doesn't really want for Hawke to hear them or for the offer to stand.

"I don't."

"Do you…" Isabela shuffles. "Do you want to go to bed? Not to sleep… though from the look of it you could use a bit of that. It wouldn't be wrong, Hawke. You could use a distraction. It would be…comfort."

Hawke sets five books on the shelf, clunk, clunk, clunk, clunk, clunk. "No."

"But…"

"I'm fine, Isabela."

* * *

xxx

A disembodied voice calls to Hawke in her dreams. She can't identify it, try as she might. It sounds like no one she's ever known. It's why she can't sleep for more than a few minutes at a time. It's why she's exhausted. She sees her mother's face when she's awake. She sees her mother's broken, stitched face when she closes her eyes. She can't focus.

She turns on her side and tries to clear her mind of thought. Why had she gone out that day? Why hadn't she returned home immediately after she'd finished everything? She curls and uncurls her fingers. She pulls her body into itself.

It's cold.

She squeezes her eyes shut as if so doing will keep the memory of her mother's last moments out of her mind. They're all gone now: her father, her brother, her sister, her mother. Her heart lurches and she sits up sharply. She runs a hand through her hair. Looks around. No. There's no one there. Bodahn and Sandal have been scarce. She's had the home to herself. The whispers come again and she looks around. It's strange. She can't identify whether it's a man or a woman's voice.

She's sick. Or hungry. Her body feels light and heavy.

She kicks the blankets away and back on the bed with a soft thud. Wiping at her face does little to rouse or fatigue her. For the past four days she has had the feeling of being stuck in between existence and not being tangible.

She closes her eyes and drapes an arm along her forehead, over her eyes, an extra barrier to her thoughts. She sleeps, for a time.

That voice again: foggy and compelling. Close, so close. In her ear, in her mind. Enticing her. Telling her to put it all away. Telling her to hide. Telling her that she can be cared for. That it can all be so much better. That the pain can stop. That she has done enough.

Hawke walks in the darkness. She hears her mabari, somewhere in the distance, barking. She calls out to him but he comes no closer. She continues to walk to where the voice beckons, to where the voice promises absolution. There is no direction, really, she only knows that she goes deeper into the darkness. Your family is here, the voice says, it’s easy to be with them again. All you have to do is submit.

Submit.

Submit.

Inky oblivion is all that exists. She smells smoke. She looks around. There is still only black, except for a red glow behind her eyes. The mabari in the distance is becoming anxious in his yowling. Ignore that, the voice says, you've fallen asleep at last and your family is here, waiting for you. Your father, sweet Bethany, your obnoxious but good-hearted brother, your mother, all here, all yours again if you walk a little further, if only you submit. Doesn't that sound nice?

It does sound nice.

Hawke winces. She looks at her arm that has suddenly filled with pain. It's fine. She forgets it but the pain comes again, more fiercely. She inhales sharply. The darkness is being obliterated by fire that is too close. It surrounds her. Even here she can feel it, hot on her skin. She looks around curiously and hears the mysterious voice, along with the voice of her family.

Don't turn back, they say.

"I won't turn back," Hawke mumbles, talking in her sleep.

The pain comes again, this time blinding.

Her eyes snap open. She's bathed in sweat. The mabari has his paws on the bed, biting her arm. "What are you doing?" she demands. His snout is red, his teeth glistening with blood, her arm torn open, soaked in it. The pain is unbelievable. He does two quick hops, proud of himself. She forgets about scolding the animal. There is a fire roaring around her. The bed is engulfed in flames, the canopy is on fire, the curtains are on fire, the dresser beside her bed. Her eyes widen; she jumps to her feet, to the floor. "Get out of here," she tells the mabari. He whines and runs in a circle, trying to tell the stupid human that the room is on fire and they would best be served by leaving.

Her hair is plastered to her face in a sweaty mess, her clothes cling to her. She sees the fire racing up the ceiling, racing to the desk. Her home is burning around her.

She moves instinctively, grabbing her staff which has miraculously escaped the blaze and waving it at everything that burns, the curtains, the bed, the dressers. She creates layers of thick ice. The room quickly chills, her breath misting in the air, particles of frost stiffening her damp hair, blood coagulating on her arm, making her fingers blue. She has never beckoned such elementals so quickly but it is necessary. Fire twists and burns, licking at the ice until it falls, collapses, melts, just as she expected. Great splashes of water spill onto the flames, drowning it.

She gasps for breath, searching for any other sign of fire, leaving the room and searching the mansion for any other fires that may be burning. There aren't any. She returns to the room, in a panic, her breath shortening until she's hyperventilating. Her legs give way. She falls to the floor. Wet soot comes away on her skin, on her clothing. She looks around the room and wonders about the origin of the fire. The mabari comes and licks her face, wagging his stub of a tail and barking happily at their survival.

She looks at the fireplace. She hasn't lit it in days. The more she studies the room the more the bed appears to be the point of origin for the fire. What does it mean? Whatever it is she was dreaming about, she can't remember it but she feels a grudging and unfathomable resentment for the mabari for waking her from her peaceful slumber.

* * *

xxx

It's a few hours past midnight and Isabela smells charred wood and stone upon entering the home. She doesn't see any signs of fire damage. She turns her attention up the stairs. She calls Hawke's name without meaning to. There isn't a response. There's blood and black smudges on the banister. Isabela quickly climbs the stairs.

Hawke is sitting at her desk, writing. The mabari looks at Isabela and cheerfully bounds over, jumping on its hind legs and resting its paws on her waist. She sees the blood on his snout, drying now, and soot. She pushes him away. The beast is heavy. "Hawke?" She pulls her shoulder until Hawke turns. She looks terrible. Why is she dirty? "What happened?" She looks to the scorched furniture and the ruined bed. "Did someone break in?" Was it the carta or someone else she'd happened to piss off? It could be anyone.

"No."

"Who did this?"

"I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?" She snaps. Why the void is she sitting here in the middle of the night, in a burned room, at her bloody desk, writing? Has she lost her mind? Her eyes are empty of any telling emotion. Isabela is frustrated. "Did you bloody do it?" It's not quite a joke, she's hoping for a reaction. Hawke's forehead knots quizzically. "Maker, Hawke. What's…" the matter with you? Brilliant. It isn't as if her mother has just been murdered by a lunatic. Isabela looks down shamefully. She notices Hawke's robe, ripped and Hawke's hand, stained red.

"What happened to your arm?" Isabela asks. It looks like raw meat, open and crudely half-stitched. She thinks of Leandra and pushes the woman from her mind. She looks closer; the wound appears to have been made by bite marks. "Did you let that blasted mabari of yours use you for a rag doll?" She knows that Hawke hasn't left her home for the past few days. She takes Hawke's arm. "Why haven't you healed this? Go to Anders, at least." The last comment earns her a deadly look. Hawke pulls it away. "Do you want a hook for an arm?" Isabela doesn't want for her to have one. There are particular things she likes about the woman, talents that would be lost or become horrifically painful if she had a hook for an arm. "Get it taken care of."

"I've been tired."

What sort of response is that? "Were you asleep when this happened?" She's ready to ask again when Hawke gives a solitary nod. "Who did this?" she asks again. "Why do you keep this mangy mutt around? You'd think he could have done that job on whoever set the fire." Hawke mutters something. Isabela kneels in front of her, asks her to repeat herself.

"I think I did it," she says again.

Isabela takes a breath. She doesn't know why she goes cold. She takes Hawke's face in her hands. "All of this can be replaced. All of it, except you." Hawke nods again but Isabela isn't sure if she's done it because she understands or because she thought it would be the appropriate response after Isabela finished her sentence.

Isabela doesn't understand any of it. Hasn't Hawke always controlled her magic? Hasn't that been her shtick? And here she is nearly having burned her home down, sitting at her desk, writing. Is she a maniac? Isabela is unsettled. She doesn't know how to communicate her concern so she says: "You should bathe." Hawke says nothing. Isabela kisses her. She tastes like cold ashes. Hawke is unresponsive.

Isabela stands and looks at the journal. Strange symbols are scrawled on the pages, none of which she recognizes; it certainly isn't any language she's ever seen or could understand. "What's this?" Isabela asks.

Hawke looks at the page, at the markings, blinks, surprised as Isabela is. "I don't know."

* * *

xxx

The only reason he's gone is because Isabela has asked for a favor and she's helped him before. Anders has his own plan and is in need of his own aid. He will go see to…whatever it is that's the matter with Hawke's arm and then ask her to help him stop Ser Alrik's Tranquil Solution plot. The woman is wildly ignorant despite her talent in battle. He doesn't even know if she's much of a mage.

Bodahn greets him at the door, ushering him inside and speaking worriedly of his poor messere. "It'll all be taken care of," he says to Bodahn. It's one thing to heal the poor refugees in Darktown and quite another to come up to this ingrate's home. She's filthy rich. She's lost her family but who hasn't? At least she's a bed to lie on, a home to sleep in.The others are moping about but why should he be sympathetic? When has she ever offered him kindness?

Still, the home feels strange. He's uneasy. There's energy in the air that isn't identifiable but makes Justice stir inside of him. Anders ignores it and attributes it to his own irritation at having to go to one of the persons he likes least for help. He goes into the library and finds her sitting on the small flight of stairs. She looks at him as if he isn't worth acknowledging.

Anders crosses his arms. "Isabela told me your arm's in bad shape." Hawke ignores him. "She told me you'd be a pain in the ass about this. Let's just have it over with and I'll be out of your hair." Is her arm even a problem? He walks over and sees it. It looks… unwell. It's swollen. He sees her crude stitches. "You're a poor healer, as well?" He sighs and is amazed that anyone ever paid for her services. "I'm going to fix this for you because Isabela will be intolerable otherwise," he takes her arm but she pulls it away as if having been burned. "What is the matter with you?" he asks. He looks into her eyes. They're condescending. That isn't much different than usual. They look older. Maybe she's only tired. Maybe this is just her emotional state. Maybe she's finally losing control of her magic. Hawke has never understood that magic is bound to a mage, to their whole, to their everything. She's always thought she could hide it away or pretend it didn't exist, the fool. "Give me your arm." She doesn't. He reaches out roughly and takes it. She makes a small sound of complaint but doesn't take it back. "You're in a state," he says with a shake of his head. "And I'm not talking about your arm."

He covers her arm with his hand, ignores her hiss and begins. His skin on his arms twists and feels as if it is being punctured. He doesn't know what it is that she did to it but he's surprised she's let it go on this long without blood poisoning which would be considerably harder to cure. At least it isn't as difficult for him—the strength of the wardens comes in handy. Next time she thinks to give him attitude… But no, best not anger her now. He does need her help. "Listen, Hawke… What happened with your mother is terrible. But that's life in Kirkwall, whether we like it or not."

She flicks her eyes to him but is silent, her jaw clenching he's unsure what from, the pain of her arm or the pain of his presence. "Terrible things happen all the time. What's important," he continues, "is that we make sure to care for what can still be prevented."

"And here's the part where you ask for something," she says.

She tries to yank her arm back but he holds tightly to it. She is no match for his strength. She is a nuisance and unliked but she does get results and the others are likely to follow her, especially now after this…difficult time, they'd want to encourage her. "There's a templar," he begins, trying to contain the anger in his voice, "named Ser Alrik." He tells Hawke of his abuses, of his plan to make every mage in Kirkwall a Tranquil. He's come to her before with alarming news like this before and she'd shot him down. But surely she knows better, now. Isabela told him how Fenris had gotten his underthings in a twist when she'd aided fleeing Circle mages. Perhaps she is changing, perhaps she is better. He finishes her arm and then releases her. "It would mean a lot if you helped. An innocent is an innocent, no matter what origin. Doing this to mage's minds it's— a violation. I know we've had our disagreements but people respect you Hawke—maybe… maybe there's more to you than I've imagined. You know that my only wish is for mages to be safe, to be as safe as any other person. You've done much for Kirkwall. You know the difference between right and wrong."

"No."

"No?"

"No. That is my answer. No, I will not investigate if mages are being made Tranquil. Do you know what it is that I want? No matter how much I do for Kirkwall no one ever asks. What I want is for the templar sword to be swift and mighty. I want for Ser Alrik to succeed in his plan. I want for every Kirkwall mage to be made Tranquil. It will save me the trouble of killing them later."

Anders stands when she does and takes a step backward. "You're disgusting."

"Get out of my home before I start with you, abomination."

Anders glowers. Justice pulses within him. He takes a step towards her as she takes one closer to him. Her eyes had been emotionless but now they are filled with loathing. He steps back. He won't attack her. She's just saying things. He hopes. He turns and walks quickly away from the home. Maker. Is that Kirkwall's bloody savior? She's a bigger menace than Knight-Commander Meredith.

* * *

xxx

Isabela sneaks into the brig, the irony not lost upon her. A city guard, those 'well-trained' buffoons are nothing to her. Aveline's another matter altogether but that's not who she has to get by, is it? It'd be more difficult—but she could do it.

The hour is late. The snores of the prisoners resound through the corridors. The burning torches flicker but she knows how and when to ease in and out of the shadows. Her steps will not be heard unless she wants them to be.

She walks for minutes, slinking down several flights of stairs until she arrives at the bottom, a room that is a circle. There are six cells, all with their doors ajar but one. She goes to the metal door and stands on her tip toes, peering above the small barred frame at the top. There's no mistaking it. There she is: Hawke.

She sits on a small wooden bench that juts from the wall, her hands shackled in front of her. She's awake and seemingly thinking of nothing. Boredom nor aggravation manifests on her face. Isabela smiles, gripping the bars. "This isn't exactly how we tend to play it, sweet thing." And in all her fantasies of having Hawke in chains, this wasn't how she'd imagined it. She feels a little thrill of excitement just the same but is mildly unnerved to see Hawke here. "Aveline's going to think I'm a bad influence." She sees a glimmer of a smile on Hawke's lips. "She told me what happened." The smile vanishes. Yes. Aveline had told her how Hawke had joined her on night patrol, how they were ambushed, as they usually are and how Hawke had taken an arm off one of the city guardsman, clean as a whistle. The guard had begun screaming, either from the geyser of blood shooting out of the stump where his arm used to be or the sight of his previous attachment landing several feet away only to be played with by Hawke's pet mabari. "What  _happened_? I don't care how good you think you are—it's not something you could do with that dagger of yours."

"It was an accident."

"You don't have accidents. Not that kind, anyway," she quickly adds. Hawke shrugs in response. Isabela is tired of standing on the tip of her toes. She pulls out a small collection of lock-picks and works on the lock. "You know, you have more than enough coin to get out of here. Why don't you?"

"Aveline wasn't supposed to put me here."

"You know how Lady Man-Hands is," she feels the weight of the tumblers running along the picks, "justice, duty, law and all the rest of that nonsense." She hears a click and smiles triumphantly. She stows the lock-picks and swings the door open. No staff, no knife. Isabela wonders if Aveline really thought Hawke would try to break out of the brig. It's what she'd do but not Hawke.

"You shouldn't have done that."

"I do a lot of things I'm not supposed to do." Like steal and lose valuable Qunari relics. Isabela looks at the small cell; stone stacked upon stone, it's tall with windows about fifteen feet above. "Apparently, so do you." Hawke hasn't risen. Her legs are shackled, the metal chains coiled around the floor like a snake. She laughs. Aveline's ridiculous. Talk about overkill. "Think you could take some of these with you when you go? Maybe you could buy them," she says with a grin, "we could make good use of these." When Hawke doesn't speak, Isabela continues. "Your Hightown neighbors are going to be absolutely  _scandalized._ "

Hawke leans her head tiredly into the stone wall. "You know, all those bastards who were happy to drink our wine and eat our food haven't bothered to say a damned thing about what happened. I bloody hate the people of Kirkwall."

Isabela looks at her. It's the first time she's made reference to the death of her mother. It's the first time, in some time, that she's admitted to hating being the errand girl. Despite her words, her voice and face are without expression. Instead, she looks the same as she has for the past week. Anders told her how their conversation went. Hawke's just angry. She doesn't really believe those things. She couldn't. Isabela touches her hair. "You  _can_ stop." They've had this conversation before. "You don't need to do anything anymore. Not for Kirkwall, not for any of us." Except… help her out if Castillon happens to come around… "There's a stack of letters at your home from the templars, by the way. They want your help tracking down pesky, runaway mages."

Hawke's face hardens. "I don't have much longer here."

"Why do you help them? Look where you are. Look at who you are. They'd do much worse."

"It doesn't matter." Hawke says. Isabela looks at her sharply, protest readied. Hawke's cuffed hands come to her face, the shackles scraping. They're cold. The chains that bind her legs clink as she slides closer and seizes her mouth. "I don't want to talk. I don't want to think. All I can do in here is think."

"I'll close the door."

"No." Hawke flicks her eyes to her chained hands. The locking mechanism is blasted off. She pulls the chains away from her wrists as if they were only an afterthought and takes hold of Isabela, kissing her with violence. Isabela responds to her frenzied kiss, gasping when Hawke bites her lips too hard, moaning when she sucks on her tongue and tugs her dress upward or downward where appropriate.

Isabela hadn't been anticipating this kind of visit. Hadn't thought Hawke was the type. She's more authoritative than usual, much more licentious and demanding. When Isabela doesn't give or guess quickly enough, Hawke takes her hands and her face and guides her until her breath bursts quick and painful, delirious with sensation. Hawke is cold on the outside but a pyre on the inside. She is a woman possessed, feral and uninhibited. She has energy to spare, far more energy than Isabela would have expected given how little rest she's had and how listless she's been.

Time melts until it's unrecognizable, until the sky is bleeding a pale blue and burning red with the approaching dawn. "I'm tired," Isabela says hoarsely, disbelieving her own words. "I should go." The door is still open, after all.

Hawke pays no mind to the shackles still circled around her legs; she shoves Isabela to a sitting on the bench, kneels before her and spreads Isabela's knees, hands settling on her hips and jerking her closer. "Not yet."

Isabela keeps the tips of her fingers delved in Hawke's hair, bringing her closer, her breath exploding in her chest, coming in sharp, hard rasps. Moaning would alarm the guards. She bites her tongue so fiercely that she draws blood.

* * *

xxx

"No, I will not help you get the Arulin'holm. I will never enable your disgusting practices."

Merrill attempts to regulate her breathing, to not look as furious as she feels. She looks at the eluvian and wants to scream in frustration. Something is wrong with Hawke—something more so than usual. Is it only grieving? She can't tell, her emotions are all tied up in knots. "This is important." Was she foolish to think that Varric had made too much of things? Despite how Hawke had thrown her out of the memorial for her mother? She thought if some time passed… that Hawke might come around, that she might understand. "I'm only trying to help my clan. Don't you understand? Can't you try to understand?" She hates the weepy quality of her voice. No. She will not cry. She will not cry in front of Viktoria Hawke, no matter how contemptuously she looks at her, no matter how she mocks her with indifference to her plight. "Please."

"Do you know how you sicken me? You're no better than Quentin. If Isabela didn't feel some pathetic attachment to you I'd do the templars' work. I'd do so gladly." She goes to the doorway of Merrill's room. "Don't bother me with your stupidity again. I will never do anything for you. I'm allowing you to live. Be satisfied with that."

She leaves. Merrill hears the slamming of the door. She slumps to the floor, too stunned to cry. She covers her face and tries to think of another way. Is that really Hawke? Is that really who her best friend is with?

* * *

xxx

Fenris is glad Hawke is seeing reason again. It's unfortunate that it took the death of her mother to make her come around. Leandra was a good woman, another innocent victim of the depravity of mages. Perhaps he had been hasty in ending things between him and Hawke. He isn't heartless. He understands how she might sympathize with them. But no longer. All fool notions that all mages are created equally have finally left her. Hawke is the exception, not the rule. He takes no small degree of delight in her animosity towards the zealot Anders and the blasted blood mage. It's long overdue for him to have someone with sense in agreement with him.

Hawke is a force to be reckoned with in battle and he thrills in how she decimates the mages they chase after or the slavers mercilessly profiting from the cruelty they inflict on others. She blasts them back and he finishes them, cleaving them to pieces. He likes this, that she works to support him, that she uses her curse for the benefit of Kirkwall without falling prey to craven madness.

Fenris smiles with pleasure, pleased that whatever mercy she granted the garbage before has long been forgotten. Slavers are better than mages but not by much.

It's only the two of them and there's a river of blood that runs over the cave ground. He goes to her and tenderly wipes at her cheek with a cloth. "We've spent enough time in here today," he says with a sneer. "Let's get going. I believe I owe you a beer."

* * *

xxx

"Do you know that the Veil is thin here?" Merrill asks Varric and Isabela. She is poring over one of her texts, this one looks older than most. Varric is of the mind that the little coin that Daisy gets her hands on is spent on her crumbling texts.

"Is that so?" Varric shuffles the cards and looks over at her. Merrill hasn't been making too much eye contact. She'd meandered around how the conversation with Hawke had gone. He'd suspected badly. Hawke told him when asked. He rarely wants to deck her: he's a gentleman and he's fond of her. But he wanted to then. Now Daisy's talking about the Veil.

"Is this some magic thing?" Isabela asks, resting her head atop of her folded arms. "Blast, can't we talk about anything else?" She steals the cards from Varric and shuffles them again, subtly letting an ace fall into her lap. "What does it matter that the Veil is thin? If a pretty lass isn't wearing it, I'm not interested."

"The templars are so scary here," Merrill says, scratching gently at her temple. "And at first I didn't understand it and in some ways I still don't but some of these books I've been reading tell of the Veil in Kirkwall being thin. And the magisters of long ago making it thinner. Not all mages are bad… I don't believe that. I'll never believe that. But maybe that's why Hawke does. Maybe that's why they all go crazy and turn to blood magic and…"

Isabela deals the cards. "You know I adore you, Kitten, but I still can't seem to care."

"Demons can cross over the Veil here easily. Communicate even with normal people."

Varric laughs. "There are normal people in Kirkwall?"

"Non-mages," Merrill specifies.

"And this has what to do with our lovely gambling game?" Isabela asks.

"The streets…" Merrill stammers. "They're shaped like glyphs." Isabela nods distractedly. "Don't you…" Varric looks at her, pays attention. She takes a breath. "Don't you think Hawke has been acting strangely? Since Leandra died and…" Varric arches an eyebrow. "She's different. Still bad. But worse?"

"Her mother just died," Isabela says irritably. "You can't blame her for being angry at mages."

"Rivaini's right," Varric looks his cards over and throws two down. "She's never made her opinion on mages a secret. Given all that's happened…" He looks at Merrill whose face is flushed more and more by the moment. "I'm not saying how she's treated you is right… and I'm not saying she hasn't been angry or… mildly terrifying at times…" he thinks of her in battle.

"We're all doing too much talking and not enough drinking," Isabela pulls Merrill's book away and throws it on the floor. Talking about Hawke this way when she isn't present bugs her.

* * *

xxx

Hawke walks the Wounded Coast and wonders if she has been lost to madness. She hears the whispers clearly now as if it were anyone else engaged in conversation with her. The soft sensual voice of a woman promises her everything she's ever longed for: her family, the absence of her blighted magic and any lover she could want, even a pirate captain with the inability to love. The invisible touch on her face, caressing her is as real as anything else. She knows it isn't real.

_It can be real. Reality is only what you believe._

Maybe.

Hawke spots a band of raiders in the distance. She holds her staff at her side. There's around twelve raiders against three templars. Hawke tries to evaluate what's important. If she helps the templars, they'll discover her. It's broad daylight in the Wounded Coast. She can't make them believe the opposite of what they've seen with their eyes.

If she doesn't help them, the templars will likely be killed. There are mages amongst the raiders. Hawke's eyes narrow.

_Leave them. You've helped Kirkwall over and over. Kirkwall rewarded you with the death of your mother. I will return to you your family. I will give to you your pirate queen, docile when you see fit, fiery when you demand._

A mage casts a spell and a templar is hurtled off the cliff. There's two templars now—one of them the Knight-Captain Cullen. They're retreating, running in her direction.

_Turn away now. They don't concern you._

Another electrifying spell and the other templar falls, screaming as he is roasted within his metal armor. Hawke readies her staff and races forward, towards the raiders, towards the Knight-Captain.

* * *

xxx

Knight-Captain Cullen blocks the sword with his shield. He is outnumbered. He and a handful of templars had been on patrol in the Wounded Coast to apprehend runaway Circle mages. It isn't uncommon for them to make their way to the Wounded Coast. A mage's intent is always unknown, always questionable and judging by his experiences they are likely to turn at any moment. This is the danger posed by mages. Two of his remaining men have been dispatched by one mage, from a distance where swords cannot strike.

"Maker aid me…!" he mutters under his breath and turns his head to see Viktoria Hawke. A helpful ally indeed, having many times helped him and the Templar Order recover runaway mages—with an apostate's staff.

"The Maker wasn't available," she tells him rancorously, "you're stuck with me."

"You're an apostate!" he steps back, stunned at the revelation. All this time they’ve had a viper in their midst. She lifts her staff and the sky swirls like a dark cyclone. The raiders hesitate and lift their eyes briefly upward. Their hesitation is momentary but it is enough for the damage to be done. A rain of fire crashes down and Cullen watches in horror as a man is obliterated to ashes by a massive ball of fire.

The men scream and scramble. Some run towards them, some run away. Hawke jabs her staff in the direction of one of the runaways, his legs splinter mid step, he yells and collapses, landing hard on his elbows. In the time that it takes Cullen to deflect an arrow and look up again, the man is gone.

"Pay attention!" Hawke says to him.

Cullen does. He isn't sure if Hawke meant to call attention to her actions but he can't help but watch. A man races toward them swinging a sword. Cullen hears cracks and splintering; the man's legs buckle under him like the other man's did but that isn't the end of it, his arms are broken, sword falling to the sandy, bloody pit that is being created beneath him as he….shrinks. He wails but Hawke pitilessly clenches her fingers to a close, his bones puncture through his skin, through his clothing, until his head concaves, his cries cutting away abruptly. When she decides she's finished, his body falls in a lump to the ground and she moves on to the others. Her eyes glow red.

Monster. She is a monster.

Cullen wonders if he is enough to stop her. Cullen wonders if he should join the raiders and stop her.

* * *

xxx

Isabela wonders about things, about magic. Is magic what Merrill and Hawke do or is it something more, something more fantastical than temporary summoning? Can it be chance and timing? She and Merrill are returning from Mount Sundermount where they had ventured to some days past. Merrill had wanted the Keeper to give her the Arulin'holm and had talked Isabela into going with her. Needless to say the Keeper hadn't given it to her and so now they walk back to Kirkwall. They're at the Wounded Coast and they've walked into a bloodbath. They are too far away to get into it—which is fine. As much as she loves a good fight, she's tired.

But Merrill says: "Is that Hawke?"

Isabela peers more closely and chill.s "Yes, it is. And the Knight-Captain." They run but they're fatigued. They don't run fast enough. The numbers of the men dwindle the closer they get.

Hawke sweeps a group of men with an ice spell—their movements slow until they're frozen in place, rendered helpless. Hawke brutally kicks the leg off of one of them. It'd be funny if she didn't look so… Isabela doesn't recognize that look. The man starts howling but it's reduced to gurgles as Hawke flips the staff where her dagger is attached; with a ferocious cut she's ripped his throat open.

She calmly touches the next one's chest as he struggles to ready his bow; he explodes, sending chunks of himself and limbs flying. She walks through a mist of his blood, stepping past the frozen legs that are still upright on the sand before they fall over dully with a thud. There's another man shouting, running back, throwing down his daggers, raising his arms. "Stop! Get away from me! I'll stop! I'll stop raiding, I swear it!"

"You're not worth the air you breathe." She waves her staff at him and he flies backwards, impaled by a pile of craggy rocks.

"This isn't Hawke," Isabela says to Merrill, who finally comes to believe that Hawke may know something about magic after all.

Only Hawke and Cullen remain.

* * *

xxx

Hawke doesn't gasp for breath. She is conditioned. This is what she has studied the entirety of her life; this is what she has fought so long to hold back. The air stinks of charred flesh. The sand is wet and sticky with blood. Her face is red with it and here is the man she has saved looking at her with disgust.

"I've saved your life," she tells him coldly, "you won't offer your apostate pet a word of thank you?" Cullen lifts his sword but not quickly enough. Hawke pummels him with invisible force that propels him back. He crashes painfully beside some rocks but she picks him up and throws him again. He screams as he's thrown several feet to the side, dangerously close to the edge of the cliff.

_Come with us._

She can hear her family, pleading with her to join them. Cullen stands, sword in hand and once more she lifts him and yanks him close. He tries swinging the sword at her but his balance is lost. She dodges his swipes easily.

It is so easy for a mage to fall.

She thinks of her mother.  _You've always made me so proud. I am still proud of you, love. You're not meant to be alone. And you are alone if you stay there. Come with us. No matter what you've done for the templars they will never accept you. You will always be so lonely._ Her mother's voice, so real in her head, as clear as the terror and hatred in Cullen's face, as clear as his voice shouting 'abomination!'.

Hawke flings him away again but doesn't pay attention to where he lands. She throws her staff to the side and surrenders.

* * *

xxx

His ribs are broken, he's sure of it. Even templar steel cannot protect from the constant thrashing he has received. Who would have imagined it—Viktoria Hawke, the noble of Hightown, the templars' unwavering ally, a mage. This is their worst fear realized. How many have been contaminated by her? For all her fervor she has fallen. He stands, slowly. Her back is to him.

He picks up her sword and mutters under his breath, using templar skill to buckle whatever magic she might still have in her. He shuffles over. She should be considerably weakened now. She should be just a woman. He points the sword at her back. Pushes the tip into it.

She says: "I'll go with you. I don't want a harrowing. I want peace and control. I want calm. I want Tranquility. Please."

"No." He shakes his head gravely. "Not for something like this." He looks around. This is as terrible of a thing as he's seen any magister do and she did it in the span of seconds. Not since the Circle tower of Fereldan has he seen such cruelty. Most mages he's seen cast such spells have been withered, their energy depleted, their bodies sagging but she stands tall. "Not for something like you."

"You're going to kill me."

"Yes."

"I've helped you for years."

"It doesn't matter."

Hawke turns slowly, facing him. Cullen's forehead bleeds, stinging hot into his eye but he doesn't shift, doesn't dare. He will not give her the advantage. He knows their trickery. Make me a Tranquil, she says. And the moment he accepts her bargain she destroys him like she did the other men. He is not numerous enough, capable enough to take someone like this back on his own.

She sinks to her knees in front of him, head lowered, neck exposed, fingers clutching at sand. She doesn't cry. She looks relieved.

* * *

xxx

There is a stitch in her side but Isabela has pushed through much tougher things. She ignores Merrill's cries, Merrill who is afraid of templars, who shouldn't get involved in this because Isabela is unsure of how it will play out.

Isabela's daggers sing as she pulls them from the scabbards at her back and points them at Cullen's throat. She dares a glance to Hawke who remains bloodied and kneeling, waiting for death. Why didn't she see it? Why didn't any of them? Blowing away the arm of the city guardsman, being reckless with her use of magic and now attacking the Knight-Captain for no other reason than wanting an end.

"Lay down your weapons," Cullen commands.

Isabela holds fast to them. "She's saved your presumably nice ass at least twice. If she were a right-minded mage she'd want to kill you like all those bastards you see scattered in pieces around you but she didn't. Look around you and fool yourself into thinking that she couldn't have done the same to you but don't think to do the same about me. I don't have her stupid sense of nobility. I will gut you here and now, templar or no."

"How dare you," he growls, the blood beginning to harden somewhat on his forehead but still flowing freely.

"It's done." Hawke says quietly. "It's fine, Isabela."

"No, it isn't, you idiot! You keep saying that—do you even know what the word means?" Isabela looks at her. She's drenched in blood. She looks small and defeated. "Why couldn't you just bloody cry like anybody else? Why did you do this stupid thing?" Isabela doesn't know how to save her. It isn't about getting rid of Cullen; that she can do. But at what cost? He knows Hawke is a mage now. Isabela knows Hawke well enough to know that she wouldn't forgive the death of a templar, not of one like Knight-Captain Cullen, anyway. "Back away," she says to Cullen.

Cullen raises his sword.

No one pays attention to Merrill.

* * *

xxx

Merrill doesn't know which blow will come first. If Isabela will get a splash of red across her nose from a quick swipe to Knight-Captain Cullen's neck or if Hawke's head will be hacked off and roll between them. She doesn't have time to think. She doesn't think. She takes out her small dagger and sinks it into the palm of her hand.

There are demons present. She can hear their frenzied whispers and the sound like she's in a windstorm. Hawke's mind is crowded, fogged in shadows and memories, she can hear it but she has to turn away from it before she is overwhelmed by grief and anger, by the hatred and the seduction: there's someone else there, something else. She turns and focuses on Cullen, feeling the knife twist in her hand, her fingers clenching inward. He's bleeding. She enters his mind.

This is the worst form of blood magic but she can't stand the idea of Isabela suffering for Hawke's foolishness. Not if she can do something about it. She does not like to think of it as violating. She is not a braggart. She does not want him to know the power being held over him. His mind is numbed by terror, sharp with righteous anger, clouded and weak. She takes it.

She makes her voice his. He goes rigid, blade still held overhead and stops.  _My men were attacked by raiders on the Wounded Coast. I must return to the Gallows and let them know. Viktoria Hawke is no mage. Viktoria Hawke was not at the Wounded Coast._ And here she sees his mind pulling, resisting, fighting her but she forces her way inside.  _I must return to the Gallows at once and inform them that the templars were killed by raiders. The templars were killed by raiders. There were no mages present._

Everyone sees with their mind, not their eyes. It's the reason Hawke looks at her and hates her. It's the reason why Cullen looks straight at Hawke and does not see her. She makes him forget her. She molds his memories, forming what he will see, what he will remember. He lowers and sheathes his sword, turning awkwardly and moving away, shuffling, returning to Kirkwall. He walks past her, ignoring her staff, the blade sunk into her flesh. Thank the Creators.

She moves closer to them now, staff in hand dripping blood along its knobs. Isabela looks confused about what happened. A moment later she looks more confused still when Merrill points her staff at Hawke. "Get ready," Merrill tells Isabela.

Hawke doesn't turn to look at Merrill. She's tossed back like a doll. Isabela looks at Merrill, betrayed. She shouts. Hawke's head slams into a rock. Her body goes limp.

There is a flash of light around her, a screaming that is unidentifiable and seems to come from every direction at once. Hawke's body twitches, lifts several inches off the ground, her head lolled back, arms hanging awkwardly. Then she falls uselessly back to the ground. Merrill narrows her eyes, points the staff at Hawke again.

"What are you doing?" Isabela shouts, daggers out, pointed at Merrill.

The desire demon presents itself. Merrill takes a steady breath and drops to one knee, burying her hand in the bloody sand. She should be grateful for Hawke's carnage earlier. All the spilled blood will make things easier. She speaks under her breath, casting spells. Isabela looks around her as the bodies of the newly killed raiders rise.

Hawke remains unconscious.

* * *

xxx

Her family is there. All of them around the kitchen table in Lothering. Something about it is off. Carver is slightly older than Bethany and her father looks several years younger than her mother. But it makes sense, somehow. It's right. Carver and Bethany are bickering about schoolwork. Carver would like to stay out later tonight. "I'm a grown man," he tells Leandra.

"We can't be strict with him," Malcolm says, wrapping his arms around Leandra's waist. "Just think of what might have happened if you'd listened to your parents when I came around." Leandra laughs and touches his face affectionately.

"Finally you're on my side," Carver says to him. He smiles smugly at Bethany.

Bethany shoots him a look and jumps up from the table, taking Hawke's hand and pulling her down in the seat beside her. Hawke looks around in a daze. "Hey, what's the matter with you?" Bethany asks. "Pay attention." Hawke looks at her. Bethany is glowing, the light of the morning sun making her look healthy and vivacious. "Since Carver is going to be out on a 'date' I was thinking you and I could go to the chantry. You know how good Leliana's stories are and I've spotted some  _very_ handsome templars. I'll let you pick who you'd rather flirt with but I'll remind you that Leliana is a lay sister."

"I've told you to stay out of the chantry," Hawke says crossly.

"But  _why,_ Tori? The biggest danger is double booking a date. It's not as if we're mages or anything." Bethany picks up an apple from the table and tosses it to Hawke.

Hawke fumbles it. She watches it roll away to the door. There is sand being blown inside through the slit beneath the door. Hawke stands and goes to the door, looking down at the grains.

"By the void you're clumsy!" Carver tells her.

"Don't say that about your sister," Leandra says with a sigh. "She has other nice qualities."

"What a terribly convincing argument that was," Malcolm says. He looks to Hawke. "Get away from that door. There's a bit of a storm outside."

"You can get to work on chopping these potatoes," Leandra tells her. "I'm making stew tonight."

"Stew." Hawke says. She is suddenly standing in front of the counter, Bethany seated to the side of her eating an apple. Hawke chops potatoes. "I should make bread," she says dully.

"Oh, that would be lovely!" Leandra begins to gather the ingredients.

"I tire of your bread," Carver says. "It never rises." He looks accusingly at Leandra. "You shouldn't encourage her."

"When's the last time you made bloody bread?" Bethany asks. "In fact, when was the last time you even made your bed? I'm not doing it anymore," she tells him. Carver waves away her complaints.

Hawke hears screaming and furrows her eyebrows. There are voices that she knows. She looks around at her family who smile at her. Leandra stands next to her, presses a kiss to her hair. "What do you look so serious for, love?"

There's a hard slamming sound against the front door. It rattles. She ignores it. "It's nothing," Hawke says. She looks at her mother. "I just…feel so happy right now." Bethany smirks and rolls her eyes at her. Leandra slaps her knee playfully and tells her to be kind to her older sister. Hawke chops the potatoes that have suddenly transformed into bloody pieces of meat. She cubes them, thinking nothing of it.

"Gag me, Tori," Carver says.

She glances back at him. He looks pale. She turns back to the meat. Her fingers are red. Bethany is humming a tune. Hawke looks to the side, Bethany's boots are muddy, so are her clothes. "You should probably change," Hawke tells her. "You're getting mud everywhere. You'll ruin the bread."

"Fine," Bethany says drawing out the word. She hops off the counter, "but I'm wearing that cute dress of yours that I like."

"Just don’t muddy it." Hawke says. Bethany responds with a 'yeah, yeah' and Hawke listens to her shuffle around in the other room. Hawke drops the meat into the pot. She doesn't bother washing her hands before beginning to collect the proper amount of flour. She looks around the room. Carver's put his head down on the table. She doesn't know where her father went. Her mother is wearing a white bridal dress. Hawke bites her tongue. "I just want to stay here," she says softly.

"Of course you'll stay!" Leandra says, pulling her into her arms. "Silly thing. You're not going anywhere." She strokes Hawke's back gently. Hawke hears shouting in the distance. More and more sand is coming in through the door, through the cracks in the window. There are stitches on her mother's neck. Hawke yanks away from her, winces. The back of her head is bleeding. Hawke pulls back a bloodstained hand. It doesn't hurt.  _You ought to lie down._ She thinks it's her mother who says this but she isn't sure.

"Does Tori need a nap?" Carver asks, not lifting his head from the table. "I'm not cleaning up your mess," he tells her as Hawke walks to her bedroom unsteadily. She takes a seat on the bed. Bethany continues to dig through the closet. Her clothes are stained red. Hawke can't see her face.

"You just need sleep," Leandra says. Hawke lies down. She does feel tired. She closes her eyes. Her face turns sharply to the left and then to the right. She touches her cheek absentmindedly. "My poor girl has worked so hard. It's time for you to rest. We'll take care of everything else. We'll take care of you now, Viktoria. Even if you could never take care of us."

"Okay," Hawke says. The howling wind is growing louder. Leandra strokes her face. Hawke fidgets and turns on her side, facing the weathered wooden wall before turning the other way. "I can't get comfortable," she mutters and opens her eyes. They're all at the foot of the bed, save for her father.

Carver looks down at her, black poison markings across his face, eyes shadowed, lips pale, dirt in his hair. Bethany stands next to Carver, smiling, broken, covered in blood. Her mother twitches in place, face gray, silent, lips parted, eyes milky and dead.

Terror washes over Hawke. She inhales deeply until the air stabs into her. She tastes blood and sand.

* * *

xxx

Hawke opens her eyes after the fifth slap. Her eyes drift to the cloudless azure sky, to the sand and the lifeless body of a desire demon not many feet off, to Merrill's bloodied, anxious face before her gaze finally falls to Isabela who looks shaky and relieved. Isabela touches Hawke's face, warm from the heat of the sun and Isabela's slaps.

"Hey," Isabela says softly, "it's all right. Everything is okay now."

Breath catches in Hawke's throat. Her fingers move weakly over the sand. She turns on her side, head bleeding but not cognizant of the fact. After weeks of nothing she reacts to her loss. She breaks.

Isabela and Merrill try to look away but can't help but watch. They try to reconcile the emotionless woman who massacred a group of men only minutes ago with the one now weeping quietly into the sand.

* * *

xxx

Isabela helps Hawke get rid of the mountain of bread in the kitchen. She can only guess as to why she made so much to begin with. What happened at the Wounded Coast was…alarming. Isabela has been in a constant state of uneasiness since then. It wasn't the violence, so much, as it was how Isabela felt personally affected by it.

Hawke fell. Or did she? She's not sure. Merrill won't talk about it really and Isabela doesn't know how to discuss it with Hawke. Hawke knows. She must know. Why remind her of her failure? Not that it matters. Everyone makes mistakes. Some are bigger than others; that's all.

Isabela looks at Hawke, stares at her profile, noticeably etched with sadness, despite how she smiles at Isabela. Isabela's heart pumps anxiously. She can't do this. She can't keep doing this. It's too hard. It's too worrying. It's unhealthy to care so much for someone, someone who can one day not be there. What if things had gone differently? What if Hawke had died or become an abomination?

She ignores the thoughts. It's nothing to worry about. She's finally gotten some tangible leads on the Tome of Koslun. If she finds it she can finally leave sodding Kirkwall. Hawke will soon be a thing of the past and she can just get sex somewhere else.

"Are you okay?" Hawke asks. "You seem…" she contemplates a word, then shrugs gently. "Sorry about everything," she says.

"You scare me." Isabela wishes she hadn't said it. She drops her eyes and taps the toe of her boot twice on the floor. "The things you do and how you do them. You don't take care of yourself. Why can't you be more self-centered?"

"Sometimes I think all I know how to do is be self-centered." Hawke holds on to the counter tightly. She brings a hand to her forehead, possibly massaging a headache. "I've made so many mistakes."

"You're human."

"I thought I was better. I don't know what to do about Merrill, think about Merrill or the Knight-Captain or myself. I don't know anything anymore."

It terrifies Isabela how much she cares for her. She doesn't have answers for her and she wishes that she did. She has never wished anything for anyone else.

She has to go. She doesn't like how precarious she is when Hawke is near. Feeling is…uncomfortable. "Viktoria." Hawke looks at her. Isabela touches her face. Hawke's eyes are cerulean and wanting. She looks at Isabela as if she were a refuge. Isabela doesn't know how to care for a heart. She wouldn't know where to start.  _I have to go._

"What is it?" Hawke asks softly.

_I'm glad you're okay._  She wants to stay the night. "I have to go." Isabela kisses her lightly. Hawke wraps her arms too tightly around her. Isabela squeezes her eyes shut, allowing it only for moments before pulling away, exiting swiftly into the night.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Hi, lovely creatures! I really do suck. Thanks, Bam, for reminding me to update this aaaaaaand thanks to everyone else for all the kind words. Have chapter 12! It's a happy one! (JK nothing I write ever is). Also, I've done away with the long lines because it takes way too long to insert them in here...

*inserts one*

* * *

 

Viktoria Hawke opens her eyes. Her fingers stretch out but touch nothing. She's in bed, alone. The repairs to the bedroom were made swiftly while she was in the brig. Was it Isabela's doing? Varric's? Bright sunlight streams through the windows. The curtains ruffle lightly with the teasing breeze. The sky is mockingly blue.

There is no sign of anything amiss having happened. Should it reassure her? Frighten her? It is strange to know she can feel again.

Birds sing in the distance. She sits up, sore and exhausted. The world continues after all.

xxx

 

Hawke is in the library, reading one of her mother's books when warm hands cover her eyes. "Happy birthday, sweet thing."

Hawke had not anticipated a visit from Isabela. She has kept to herself since…everything. She has not left the home. She has not involved herself in Kirkwall matters. She has unofficially resigned from whatever role she played in the 'fair city'. Perhaps she is selfish but she has tired of fighting. The fighting is endless and what has she to show for it? An empty home barren of family. Every day she loses more and more. She nearly lost herself. She isn't sure she didn't.

Is it her birthday? She hadn't remembered. It doesn't seem important anymore. Hawke lowers Isabela's hands. "I don't recall telling you when my birthday is."

"You didn't have to. I did a little investigating. This was all quite some time ago." She waves it away and kisses her neck, small little kisses, as if afraid of pushing her too far.

Hawke shifts her head, exposing more of her neck. Isabela giggles and continues. "How long have you known?"

"Erm—years. Oh, what's it matter?"

"Why say something now?"

She doesn't answer right away. She does stop kissing her. Then: "I felt like it." She trails her fingers along Hawke's neck, wrapping an arm around it before taking a seat in her lap. "You've become a hermit. And you're as sullen as Fenris. Keep this up and even Varric will begin to tease you. I've already started.”

Hawke searches her reserves and is able to find a smile for her; weak but there none-the-less. "I've been…tired." It isn't a lie. The loss of her mother has left her in a deep depression, sapping all energy from her. After her murder Hawke was numb. Since…whatever it is that happened in the Wounded Coast all emotion has come spilling back. Raw and bleak it has left her nearly incapacitated. She is afraid to allow numbness to take her. She is afraid of herself.

"Tired? Have I come here for no reason, then? I've missed you…r body." She trails a finger along her face. "When will you take me to bed again?" Hawke watches her, focusing on her warmth but with no response. Isabela tires of waiting. "How are you?"

"I don't know." Isabela has told her how matters at the Wounded Coast were concluded. She knows what Merrill did for her…she knows what she has done. Which of the two is the greater evil? For all that Hawke says, for all her talk of the dangers of magic, she fell. Merrill used her blood magic to aid her… but still she manipulated the Knight-Captain. Hawke doesn't know what to make of it. It was wrong. They were both wrong.

"Are you sure? Or are you just…bottling things up again? You  _can_  talk to me." Isabela frowns when Hawke arches an eyebrow. "Look, I know I haven't exactly encouraged you to be forthcoming in the past. But the last thing I want is for you to…"

"What?" But she knows what.

"I'd prefer it if you kept yourself abomination free. All right? I told you what happened. And maybe you remember some of it now?" Isabela asks. Hawke shakes her head faintly. All she has are flashes, pieces that she isn't sure are related to the incident or past memories at the Wounded Coast. Isabela has told her that she and Merrill have agreed to keep it to themselves and not tell the others. But is that right…? "It was sca— I never thought I'd see you that way. I don't ever want to see you that way again."

"It's fine. You won't. I won't use magic again. You have my word." It had always been something she'd avoided. She isn't sure what it is that prompted her to use it more. The desire demon? Or her own anger? Is she no better than Anders? Is she as corrupted as Justice?

"That's a bold promise. And it isn't what I'm asking for. You are who you are, Hawke. Magic is a part of you, whether you like it or not. It was denying everything that got you into trouble, wasn't it?" she twirls a lock of Hawke's hair around her finger. "You and magic go hand in hand. And I know how you love to do thankless errands for Kirkwall. You can wave that dagger of yours at them all you want but all you'll do is find yourself an early grave and leave my bed cold."

"I'd hate to leave your bed cold."

"So don't," she leans down and kisses her slowly. Hawke's heart stirs, prompted by unfamiliar hope. "Anyway… let's forget this sad talk. Even if I ah—asked you to have the sad talk. It's your birthday," she rises and presents a box, wrapped in a red bow, "so…I got you a little something." Hawke looks from the box to her. "What's that look? As if I've just grown another head? I can be generous." Her cheeks darken. She throws the gift at Hawke. "It's nothing." She twines her fingers.

Hawke smiles and pulls the bow. "A gift for me on my birthday. Why Isabela—you do care."

"Actually…this is stupid." She rushes forward, hand outstretched. "Give it back." Hawke holds a hand up, keeping her away. "Give it back, Hawke. I renege on the gift. It isn't yours yet, so give it back." Hawke pulls the bow away and opens the box, throwing the top of it at Isabela who catches it before casting it aside. Hawke pulls the cloak free. It's black and hooded, lined in red. Isabela crosses her arms. "See? I told you. Nothing to get worked up about."

Hawke stands. The cloak is light, fine material. Well made. It must have cost a fortune. Unless she stole it. She slips it over her shoulders. The cloak may not be heavy but the material is strong. "Are you ashamed of your apostate lover?" she asks with a small smile, unsure if the question is entirely in jest.

"You know it doesn't matter one fig to me whether you're an apostate or not," she looks at her quizzically. "Shouldn't you know that by now?"

Hawke laughs quietly. "A lifetime of hatred over one aspect of who I am…" Isn't it what had made her into a liar for so long? She's never been able to tell anyone who she really is. And those who find out tend to die not long after at her hand. She frowns and shakes her head when Isabela continues to look at her curiously. "Sorry. How's it look?"

"You've put it on all wrong," Isabela scowls, taking hold of the fabric and straightening it over her shoulders as if nothing could be more bothersome. Her touch is gentle until she appears to realize that it is. She reaches behind her and yanks the hood over Hawke's head. "There's no point in the damned thing if you don't use that."

"What if I don't like the hood?"

"Piss on what you want," Isabela says. She pulls away, cocking her head. She lifts a finger, indicating Hawke to turn left and then right. "Well… I guess it does what it's meant to do."

"Which is?"

"Keep you out of trouble, mainly." She sighs. "What happened…made me think. You  _are_  an apostate. And like it or not, you're going to have to use that magic of yours." She raises a hand to shut Hawke up before she can speak. "And if you're  _going_  to use it… I'd rather you not get yourself killed in the process. I mean…" she flicks her gaze away, grinding her boot. "I'd really hate to return to the Rose to get my needs met."

"I'm cheap labor to you?" she asks with a small smirk. It would be easy to misread things. It would be easy to think that Isabela cared. "Sorry. Free labor to you."

Isabela pushes her lightly, laughing but unable to meet her eyes. "Oh, it's labor now, is it?"

"You can be a little rough."

"What can I say, Hawke? I like it rough. You do, too."

"You have a way of making me like and want all the things I never thought I needed." She takes Isabela's hand and draws her closer. "I'd forgotten all about my birthday. It's become more meaningless over the years. But with Mother gone… It's a reminder that I've survived another year while my family have not." An orphan. She's an orphan. There's Gamlen. Sigh. Gamlen. She should see him.

"Do you  _like_  being miserable? You feel guilty for being alive? Hawke… that isn't what your family would want. You know that…" Hawke knows that she's probably right. It doesn't make it any easier. Isabela moves closer to her. "Anyway… I'm hoping to change your mind. There's… a celebration of sorts in the works. You need to get out of here and I need an excuse to drink for hours on end. This whole birthday thing happens to be very convenient for me."

"You've planned a party?"

"Sure. Get enough liquor in you and maybe I'll get a smile out of you. And into bed. That's the important bit."

"I don't know that I'm up for a party." Hawke admits. She sees a glimmer of disappointment in Isabela's eyes. She must have imagined it; a moment later she's smiling again. "But you're right. I could stand a distraction." Perhaps staying home alone is only worsening her melancholy. All she does is feast on memories and her failures. "Thank you for the gift."

Isabela scoffs. "Whatever. But…I do expect you to wear it."

"You know I can deny you nothing."

Isabela laughs nervously. "I'll hold you to that."

Hawke takes Isabela's face in her hands and kisses her.

xxx

If Isabela knows anything about anything it's how to throw a party. She has collected an assortment of misfits for Hawke's birthday. The usual suspects and even the people Hawke doesn't want to be there—Merrill, for instance. If it wasn't for her Hawke wouldn't have a bloody birthday to celebrate, would she? Jethann has come (she has managed to resist his wiles), as well as Worthy, Hubert, whom Isabela believes is there to ask for another favor, Athenril (!) and most importantly, a vast, vast assortment of alcohol.

If Hawke is pleased by the party she demonstrates it by looking uncomfortable. Isabela prods Varric in her direction—it works like a charm and minutes later he has prized some small smiles from her.

"What are you planning?" Aveline asks.

Isabela finishes pouring herself a shot of whisky and turns to Aveline. She offers her the drink genuinely but downs it when Aveline wrinkles her nose at her. "Is that Donnic I spy flirting with Jethann?" Isabela chuckles to herself when Aveline whips her head around to look. Donnic is in fact engaged in conversation with Fenris. "All right, Big Girl. Whatever ridiculous accusation you're about to throw out, let's have it."

"It's not like you to do something like this. I'll be honest—"

"When aren't you?" she asks sourly.

"You're one of the more selfish people I've ever met."

What makes her say that? The stealing she does? Putting herself first? That's not selfish. That's smart. Maybe they're the same thing. "Well…" Isabela turns around to fix herself another drink, "you've got me there."

"So why the party? You've never needed a reason to sink into debauchery. And I've yet to make heads or tails of matters between you and Hawke. Do you want my opinion?"

Isabela laughs, turning around with a new drink in hand. "I can't believe you've asked." She smirks and looks around Hawke's home. This is the liveliest it's been in months. There will be clean up to do—she'll even help. It's important for Hawke to move forward. She's never seen anyone, asides from Fenris, perhaps, so shackled by their past. Isabela won't let Hawke lose herself to memories and sadness. Even if she hates the party, it's something to focus on, something to take her mind off things. "I know you're going to give it to me anyway—so why don't you go ahead? You can leave out the 'whore' you'll no doubt throw at the end of it. It goes without saying when you're concerned."

"I wasn't going to say any such thing." But her pale, freckled cheeks redden. She's silent for a moment, as if considering how to say whatever it is that she's going to say. If Isabela didn't know any better she might think that Aveline took the time to consider her feelings. "Hawke is in love with you. But you're not in love with her."

"That's an opinion now, is it?" Isabela scoffs softly. She looks over to Hawke, who looks quizzically between Aveline and Isabela, curious as to why the two would think to engage in conversation. Do they ever have conversations? Or are they capable only of barbed arguments? Isabela winks at Hawke and pulls another smile from her, a brighter one.

"So?" Aveline waits.

"So it's none of your business what's between Hawke and me."

"Really?" Aveline's frowning again, taking that menacing step toward her. Isabela doesn't move a muscle. She's taken on tougher than a muscled ginger with a penchant for justice and black and white laws. "For a moment there I thought you might have taken to caring for somebody else. But maybe this is only a distraction as I initially suspected and you have some of your women, somewhere, thieving." Blast. What a waste of a perfect opportunity. She's irritated at herself. An expression must show on her face because Aveline steps back, a smile on her face. "I knew it."

"Stuff what you think you know, Aveline. And anyway—even if you had uncovered some mastermind plan of mine—there's no way you could stop it. Being captain of the guard is as meaningless of a title as any." She scoffs. "I hear about what your guards do in Lowtown and Darktown—you like to hold yourself so above it all but you're no better than me, you're no better than the Templars."

Her eyes narrow. "What are you going on about?"

Isabela thinks of the stories she's heard, the city guards forcing themselves on some elven girl. And those stories are commonplace. No matter how Aveline thinks she runs a tight ship of the city guard, the truth is that people will do what they want and no matter of good influence can change a person. Hadn't Aveline once said that some people are broken? Some people _are_ broken. With no hope for repair. "What's there to tell? You already know it all. Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a party to get back to. I don't intend to spend the entire evening with a woman who has all the charisma of a wet mop." She pours a glass of wine and takes her own drink, moving away from Aveline, weaving through the crowd, saying brief hellos and dodging some of the more tactile hands.

She arrives at Hawke and Varric's side. "Have you been taking care of her?" she asks Varric.

"I've done my part." He says with a grin. "Aveline must be going crazy trying to figure out what you're up to. I have to admit, she's not alone—is there some business deal you forgot to tell your favorite dwarf about?"

"Silly Varric. You forget that I always put pleasure before business. Give me a good drink, dancing and something pretty to look at," she glances at Hawke, "and I'm golden."

"You could have done this at the Hanged Man," Varric points out.

"Ah, but it smells better here. Serah Nobility objects to the smell of piss and vomit." Isabela says with a wave of her hand. Varric chuckles before spotting a carta member he has business with and excuses himself. Isabela offers the wine to Hawke who takes it with her thanks. "How are you enjoying your party?"

"More so now that you're here." She takes a drink of the wine and looks around at the guests in the home thoughtfully. Her eyes linger briefly on Athenril before continuing.

Isabela notices. "You and Athenril…"

"That was years ago."

"Oh." That was rather straight forward of her. Isabela knew that Hawke had worked a year of servitude. She hadn't known she had worked extra. Athenril is well respected in the underworld and has a penchant for business. She tries to imagine Hawke with Athenril but can't or can't be bothered to or doesn't want to. "Well, how was she?"

"Ruthless. She cheated Carver and me a few times."

"That isn't what I meant."

Hawke laughs softly. "I know." She shifts her weight and has another drink of the wine. "I didn't remember any of it until tonight." She mentions with a shrug. She looks at Isabela as if she were a puzzle she couldn't figure out. Good. The last thing Isabela wants is to be predictable. "…Is there a reason you've thrown this party? Varric and Aveline seem to think…"

"Bugger what they think," Isabela says lightly, trying to bottle up the irrational anger she feels. She doesn't know why the obvious and rather predictable accusations of theirs are rattling her today. They don't usually. And anyway, usually they're right and she's happy to admit it to them. Today is different. Either way, she hadn't expected it from Hawke. "Is that what  _you_  think?"

"I haven't given it much thought," she says thoughtfully, her pale blue eyes continue to roam the room. Her eyes reveal next to nothing but Isabela can see her opinions of people through those eyes, how they darken and light and narrow ever slightly. "Honestly—I'm not good at this sort of thing. Not like you are."

"You're not used to people. Because of… you know?" The apostate thing.

"Right."

"I may have something to remedy that. Come on, birthday girl," she takes her hand and pulls her upstairs. Merrill watches them impassively but no one else seems to pay attention and soon they're in Hawke's room. Isabela shuts the door. "It wouldn't be a proper party if you didn't sneak your way back up to your room, would it? You're as awkward as Merrill sometimes." Hawke predictably frowns. The point still stands and Isabela won't apologize for it. She finishes her drink and sets it aside on the desk. If it leaves a ring it leaves a ring, there's no sense in having anything that isn't tested and weathered. "Are you going to drink all that wine?" Hawke finishes it, wipes at her lips delicately and sets it aside. The drink makes her cheeks go rosy. Isabela is momentarily taken aback by how beautiful she is. Her frosty eyes move to Isabela, thawing, making her more beautiful. Isabela doesn't ever want her eyes to look at her in another way. She knows how frigid they can be, how angry. She thinks of the leads she has on the Tome of Koslun and fidgets. Panics.

"Is something the matter?" Hawke asks.

Isabela is still unused to the softness in her voice. It doesn't seem as if she's known her for very long but it's been six years. Isabela remembers when Hawke only had disdain for her, when her voice was as hard and sharp as broken glass. "We're both still dressed, for one." Isabela saunters to her. She's stolen another of Hawke's dresses this evening, a white dress that is much tighter against her frame than Viktoria's. She nearly spills out of it, quite attractively if many of the appreciative glances of the evening are to be believed. She's left her bandana at the Hanged Man; she knows Hawke likes her to leave her hair loose, though she's never said so aloud. It's Hawke's birthday. It's the least she can do. "You didn't think that cloak was the only present I had, did you?"

"I was grateful for what I'd received."

Isabela ponders the words and wonders if they're to be taken at face value. She's unsure. No, she knows they aren't. Hawke  _is_  in love with her. Just as Zevran had been. It's a feat that she's denied it as long as she has. Hawke has never dared to say the words to her. Isabela could allay that fear but to do so would be a disservice. A lie. Isn't it enough that she hasn't left? She can't without the relic. Blast. Hawke says her name. Isabela blinks, brought back to the present moment. She can't keep questioning herself this way. If she does… if she does she'll pay for it with her life. Or some other awful way.

"Should we go back downstairs?" Hawke asks. "There's a room of your guests waiting."

"There's a room of people who care about you downstairs. Or—people who know that they can get something from you. It's almost the same thing," Isabela says, though she can tell by the darkening in Hawke's eyes that she disagrees. "Anyway. I want to give you more than just a cloak. I don't have a ring or jewelry or anything," she adds quickly, hearing the slightly higher pitch to her voice.

Hawke is patient and curious. "So…what is it?"

_Me_. No. "The two of us. Here. Now." She can hear the stringed guitar music from downstairs waft into the room. She touches Hawke's face. She brings it down to catch her lips. Their kisses lately have been feather light. It isn't anything Isabela is used to. It makes her nervous and squeamish in one. But she hasn't turned away from it. Not yet. She pulls Hawke closer to her. Hawke's tongue tastes of wine, her lips of strawberries. Isabela wonders when she'll grow tired of Hawke. It's been years now. It'll happen eventually, won't it? If not then something is wrong, if not…

What if Hawke grows tired of  _her_?

Their lips separate only for an instant, only enough for their eyes to meet and for Isabela to whisper her name, that 'Viktoria' that is still so unfamiliar on her tongue, a name that no other uses. But should she use it…? It's a name that was reserved for family. But Hawke has never told her not to use it.

Hawke's fingers stray over her cheeks, claiming her mouth again. Isabela closes her eyes, losing herself to sensation and vertigo, to intoxicating pleasure. Not pleasure, something else...something better. No, not better… Nothing's better than that. Hawke confuses her. She can hear her shaky sighs as Hawke teases kisses along her neck, as Hawke's hands lovingly caress her and she whispers all manners of things, stupid little things, sweet nothings that make her scared and helpless in one. She wants to escape. She wants it to never end. The contradictions that Hawke runs her through make her half-mad.

Fortunately, there is a knocking at the door. Hawke ignores it, not swayed by that tentative, friendly knock. When the rapping comes again, Hawke speaks. "Go away," in that harsh, angry tone that Isabela never hears anymore. The third time Hawke pulls away from Isabela.

"Ignore it," Isabela tells her, not moving, not quite steady yet from Hawke's attentions.

Hawke rips the door to the bedroom door open. Merrill stands there awkwardly. Hawke's expression goes from vexed to menacing in a split moment. Her arm bars the door. Isabela steadies enough to go to them. Her face feels warm. "Merrill…? What is it? We're… occupied."

"Yes, yes, I see. And I'm so sorry," she directs this to Isabela, none of it to Hawke, "but there's…a person here for you. Ah… I wouldn't have interrupted but… it seemed important. But it's—it's private."

Hawke glares at her. "Hurry up and say whatever it is you have to say."

Isabela nods for her to but still Merrill hesitates. Isabela is curious. She doesn't know what there is to say that couldn't be said to Hawke but she knows Merrill wouldn't be difficult just to spite Hawke. Merrill appears mortified to even be on this floor. Isabela glances down and notices some of the cords that tighten the bosom of her dress have been undone. Oh, balls. Why did she have to interrupt now? "Just—give me a moment," she tells Hawke, leaning up to find her lips quickly before ducking beneath her arm and dragging Merrill several feet away. The music still plays jovially downstairs. "You're timing could use some work, Kitten."

"It wasn't my idea to come up here," she mutters, "I'm not—I'm not so dumb that I don't know—" she takes a breath. "Anyway, there was a man that came here for you. A… One-Dock Jack or One-Eyed Jack," Merrill says thoughtfully. "No, that's not right…"

Isabela tries not to sputter. The things the girl says! "Honestly, have you interrupted for—" she freezes. "Wall-Eyed Sam?"

Merrill's eyes brighten. "Yes! Yes, that's the name. He said he had something… some kind of information. I tried to get him to stay—"

Isabela thanks her and returns to Hawke. Blast. Blast! Could this be the lead she's been looking for all this time? Has the Tome been found? If it has, she's saved at long last. It will get Castillon off her back and she can finally leave Kirkwall. She can leave everything behind. She's done it before. It will be easy. "I have to go," she tells Hawke tightening the dress.

Hawke looks at her quizzically. "Now?" There's a beat, a long one and Isabela knows that Hawke is trying to find some proper way to say whatever it is she's thinking. "But what about… the party?"

"You should get back to it. Enjoy it," she says, "there's still Varric and Aveline and…" she sighs. "Hawke, I know what you're thinking but I wouldn't go if it weren't important. And this  _is_  important. I promise you."

"What's going on?"

"I…I can't tell you." Isabela says. She sees the walls around Hawke lift and bites her tongue. "I know you would help me. I do. Thank you," she says awkwardly, "but right now…you can help by staying here and… and just going on with your evening without me."

Hawke's eyes shift away from her and Isabela knows that she's hurt her this evening, doing more harm than good by making a big spectacle over the birthday, over the party that she never wanted only to abandon her to it. Andraste's ass. "All right," Hawke says quietly.

"I want to continue what we started," she goes to her and takes her hand. "And… I'll make this up to you. I'll make tonight up to you. Somehow. If it's not too late I'll come back when I'm finished with my business… but if it's too late… I'll just see you tomorrow." She touches Hawke's face but only gets a small nod in return. "All right then. Ah… later."

Hawke takes her hand while she's walking away, stops her. "Whatever you're doing, where ever you're going… be careful."

"Careful?" she looks back at her and smiles. "I'm not sure I know how to do that. How about I make it up as I go along?" The response dissatisfies Hawke who looks at her soberly. "Don't look at me like that. I can't stay. Don't wait up. It'll be fine." She kisses her briefly on the lips and goes.

Leave it to Aveline and Varric to go out of their way to prove a point and make her feel like a monster. She's doing the right thing. Who cares about the party? This is her life that's at stake. Hawke would understand. Unless… Hawke were to turn against her if she found out. Isabela feels a burning in the pit of her stomach. Maybe she should have been up front with Hawke to begin with about the blasted Tome of Koslun. But Hawke might have washed her hands of her and then she wouldn't have any help against Castillon. Or maybe… maybe she doesn't want to see the look of betrayal in Hawke's eyes after she's lied to her face for years on end. No, it's not that. It's the first. She needs her help. Isabela curses herself once again. There's no saying Hawke won't wash her hands of her now. Balls. Maybe…maybe she made a mistake.

xxx

Merrill opens the door to her alienage home, her eyes immediately growing hard and suspicious. Hawke glances down at her impassively before pushing the door open and entering. Merrill looks at her as if she's crossed some line despite often intruding in her home without invitation. The home is unknown to Hawke. She's seen it not even a handful of times in the entire time that she's known her. It's far better than Gamlen's home is and is kept tidy; there is an order in the disorder.

"What do you want?" Merrill asks following her into the home as if she were a burglar on the prowl. Hawke considers that Merrill might be soft headed enough to welcome a burglar more warmly. They haven't spoken since what happened in the Wounded Coast. Hawke doesn't know what it is that she means to say to her only knowing that she should say  _something_.

"I'm looking for Isabela." There's that, too. The last Hawke saw her was two nights ago at the birthday party and no word from her since. She's both worried and not worried. Isabela can take care of herself. But Hawke wishes that she would trust her now and then.

"She's not here."

"Where is she?"

"If she wanted you to know she'd tell you."

Hawke glowers at her before turning away. She settles a hand on a chair that rests beside one of her octagon shaped tables. The table is heavy with books. She can't help but read some of the titles and find herself grow more uneasy and disappointed in the path Merrill has chosen for herself. A path that saved Hawke?

"If that's all, I'd like for you to go," Merrill marches to the door. Hawke looks in her direction but doesn't take a step. "I have a right to not be harassed in my proper home. I still don't know what Isabela sees in you," she says in an aside to herself, "do you even treat her well?"

"How I treat Isabela is none of your concern," Hawke says cuttingly. She won't discuss her relationship with Isabela to Merrill. Does Isabela talk about them to her? She feels a flicker of insecurity. "I'm here for another purpose. I'm here to talk about what happened."

"At the Wounded Coast?" she scoffs. "Is this going to be another lecture, then? You've never had a kind word for me. No matter what I do, I cannot please you, Hawke."

Does she try to please her? Why? If she's ever tried, she's done a poor job. "I care little for any attempt of yours to gain my favor. You'll never have it."

"I know," she says her voice unbearably sad with a hint of anger. "So now is the part where you tell me I was wrong to do what I did. I didn't do it for you," she says defensively, "but I know how Isabela and Aveline and dear Varric care for you. I don't understand it but I don't question it. Everything being what it was, I didn't have time for hesitation or—or to weigh what was right against what you thought was right."

"What's right, Merrill?" her lips curl into a sneer.

Merrill takes a breath. "You're here. Alive."

"What you did was wrong. I won't change my mind because you think you helped me. I'm no hypocrite." Hawke says. She looks at Merrill who answers her with a narrowing of her eyes. "Blood magic is wrong. I won't say that I remember everything that happened—"

"Would you like a reminder?" she asks dangerously.

"I wasn't meant to be saved. You violated the Knight-Captain's mind. That's unforgivable. It's why Templars fear us." She has a vague sense of discomfort. She remembers lifting a hand. Had the Knight-Captain gone flying? What did she do to him?

"Really? I  _saw_  what you did, Hawke—I  _know_  why Templars fear us."

Hawke clenches her jaw. What happened is slowly returning to her. She decimated men. She remembers being painted in blood and screams. The screams of so many dying men, men that she brutalized, cries of mercy that she ignored. They were raiders. It doesn't matter. But it  _does_.  _Magic will serve what is best in me, not what is most base._ Isn't that what her father had said? What would he think of her now? Would he be disappointed? Isn't magic what  _is_  most base in her? "You don't know—"

"I saw into your mind. I used to think that you were better. I remember when I fell into temptation in the Fade and you came here with all manner of threats," her voice shakes with anger. Hawke's eyes sting but she can't fathom the reason why. "And you told me that the demon gave you nothing you wanted—but if it had… Hawke… I feel so sorry for you. You've had so much pain."

"Shut up."

"I know the dangers but you walk blindly, thinking yourself impervious… thinking that your justice and your ideals are enough to hold on to. But you're no better than the rest of us. You feel, just as strongly as we do, more so. You have so much sadness. What does it say about you—that you would rather live in a demon's fantasy than reality? I do what I must for the future of my people. A future you would deny me but you are satisfied to live in your mind with a family that is no more." Now it's Merrill's eyes that shine, "What I did I did for our friends—but now I wonder how I must have hurt you to return you to this reality when all you wanted was the peace of the grave—of… of nothingness."

Hawke turns away from her and goes to the door. She takes several silent breaths and only speaks when she trusts herself to. Today she hates Merrill more than ever. Worst still, she has no proper words for why she hates her so. She makes her voice flat but her fingers shake. "Tell Isabela to visit me if you see her."

"Isabela doesn't listen to me."

Hawke glances back. "How do you know?"

Merrill looks at her for a long time. "I know."

xxx

_You know I can deny you nothing._

Isabela knows Hawke meant the words when Hawke looks at six years of lies, betrayal and selfishness and still decides to give her the Tome of Koslun. But Isabela does not miss how her eyes have frosted. Isabela does not miss the hurt in them—nor, does she miss, the absence of surprise.

xxx

"As soon as we've got it we can go," Isabela says walking quickly alongside of Hawke as they make their way to Lowtown. She ignores Aveline's protests and how the night has grown so cold. "You don't have to come with me—" it's a defense and a warning, "but everything's about to go to shit. I understand if you're angry— but you don't have to stay here and deal with this. You don't have to stay here and clean up my mess." If Hawke runs away she can run away without guilt. Hawke can't stay here to fix what disaster she's created. It wouldn't be right. "You owe Kirkwall nothing!" She's said it often throughout the years but she has never meant it so much as she does now. The vows that Hawke took: leaving Kirkwall to fend for itself, swearing off magic will likely soon be broken all because of her actions.

"Hawke, you cannot leave," Aveline quickly catches up to Hawke, trying to get her attention but Hawke only stares forward. "We'll help the whore first,  _fine_ , I don't like it but I understand that she's important to you—and all things considered, I'd hate to see her dead."

"Oh, Aveline," Isabela coos, "you've a soft spot for me."

"I'll give you a soft spot," she says raising a fist, "this is all your doing." Aveline returns her attention to Hawke. "I know Kirkwall has not always been kind to you but this is your home. You care for this city."

"I don't." Hawke says. She sounds as if she means it.

"This city would have her dead," Isabela tells Aveline. She receives a glare in response. Isabela speaks to Hawke. "We'll get the Tome of Koslun," Isabela recaps the plan again, hoping if she says it often enough, Hawke will be convinced, "and then we'll go."

"Together?" Varric asks, knowing Hawke won't.

Isabela glances back at him, wishing that he hadn't asked, glances at Hawke. "Honestly, I don't care."

"I can't believe you'd turn your back on Kirkwall for ass," Aveline shakes her head at Hawke, "no matter your feelings you can't deny that she has lied to you from the moment we met her and now all of Kirkwall will suffer for it."

Isabela has no good counter-argument. Everything Aveline says is true. But she wishes it weren't. Doesn't that count for something?

" _Enough_ , Aveline," Hawke says. Aveline frowns and turns away. Isabela burns with shame. Hawke should be scolding her, not Aveline. "I'm not going anywhere. I won't abandon you here to clean up this disaster."

The gratitude that overcomes Aveline's face is touching. Isabela turns away from it and knows that no one will ever react similarly because of her. She looks at Hawke only for an instant before dropping her eyes. Hawke's jaw remains tightly clenched, her voice having returned to that severe tone of years ago. She's angry. Maker is she angry.

Well. She wishes she wouldn't be. Isabela bites her tongue. She wishes that Hawke would look at her but she hasn't. She's all but given her up as a lost cause when Aveline and Varric rush forward to investigate a noise. Hawke stalls, fingers circling gently around Isabela's wrist. "Don't worry." Now she speaks as if she's unused to speaking kindly, in that stilted, awkward way of the past. But her eyes are soft. "I won't abandon you, either. Everything will be all right."

"Hawke…." _I'm sorry._

"Let's keep moving. We can't lose this chance. We'll get the relic to Castillon and then hand it over to the Arishok. It won't be as bad as Aveline makes it sound."

But Isabela knows that Hawke is fooling herself. Or…is she really so naïve?

xxx

The letter is on Wall-Eyed Sam's body.

_Dear Hawke,_

_I have the relic, and am gone. I'm sorry it has to be this way. You've been a loyal ally, but this is best for us both. You promised me the relic, and I know you'll fight Castillon for me, but I don't want this. I've dragged you too far into this mess already._

_You don't have to forgive me, but I hope you understand._

_Isabela_

Hawke crushes the letter in her hands without meaning to, the edges smolder and crinkle into flames. She does not see the worry on Varric's face. She only half-listens to Aveline. "We'll speak with the Arishok come tomorrow," Hawke says, "and retrieve your fugitives." She rises and folds the letter in half. Isabela has rarely left her letters. "We'll do this without Isabela or the relic."

"It won't be easy," Aveline says.

"It never is."

Hawke returns home, gutted.

In the morning she will deal with the Arishok. She wanted to be done with Kirkwall business but once again she's been pulled back in. No matter how she tries she cannot escape her apostate chains. To do so would mean certain death. Is she a coward?

She straightens Isabela's letter on the writing desk in her room and mourns the damage she caused the paper. Her chin quivers when she thinks of her. She forces herself to swallow all the useless emotion. Eventually she becomes motionless.

xxx

_It's nice to have somebody on my side, for once._

Why had she said that? Because it was true? To mislead her? To make Hawke think she isn't a snake?

Isabela hates herself. Which is…contradictory, given how much she values her own skin. The whole matter with the Tome of Koslun has left her nauseous. This is what she's waited bloody years for. This is what will return her life to her. And all she had to do to get it was sell Hawke and her friends out. Hawke who had given her the relic knowing full well what the cost to Kirkwall may be.

Why bargain so many lives on a liar? On a thieving whore?

Isabela can't bear the weight of the damned book. Everything has a price. It isn't the first time she'll have stabbed a friend in the back. It's what people do. It's what she's had to do to survive. It doesn't matter. She  _needs_  this blighted Tome. It would be stupid to go back. So fucking stupid. That will mean the Qunari  _and_  Castillon to contend with.

She's  _not_  going back.

She's halfway to Ostwick when she turns back. She can't feed Hawke to Kirkwall. The city will eat her alive. Stupid woman fighting endless senseless battles for nobody that even thinks to give a shit about her. Stupid, stupid Viktoria Hawke.

Why couldn't she have denied her the goddamn relic? Then she would have known that Hawke didn't give a damn about her. Everything would have been easier and she wouldn't have to return to Kirkwall to solve Hawke's problems. It isn't that she cares about her. Damn it. She doesn't. Not like that… not enough to risk her own fucking neck.

Kirkwall is ablaze when she arrives. Isabela can't shake the cold, no matter how fiercely the city burns.

xxx

The cloak falls back from her face. She's exposed herself to the nobles and Templars of Kirkwall.

Everything swims. She isn't sure whether it's blood or sweat that makes her eyes burn. Or maybe it's tears of frustration. There is no defeating the Arishok without the skills she has honed for years, without what she has sworn to never call upon again. What if she loses herself? Should fear guide her? Or should she let the Arishok and the Qunari win all to salvage some truth that shames and marks her a monster?

No. People are, for some reason or another, depending on her.

She turns on her side just as the Arishok's blade cleaves into the floor. She notices the fibers of the plush red carpeting split in half. Gets to her feet. Takes a glance around the room, a blur of faces, nobles, Aveline, Varric, Merrill… Isabela. Isn't she the one who she's fighting for? The reason for the whole blasted mess?

If only she didn't love her.

_She got herself into the stupid mess. She can get herself out._

Aveline was right. Hawke had said that all those years ago. When did everything change? Wouldn't it be easier to surrender her? Isabela has proved herself a liar time and time again.

But she came back.

_It's nice to have somebody on my side, for once._

Isabela makes it sound as if she's never had anyone on her side. Has she ever had anyone on her side? Hawke vows to always be on her side.

The Arishok rounds on her. He is a tower of muscle who outweighs her by three times at the least. One of his arms is as wide around as her head. He knows what she is now. So much for their relationship of diplomacy, of respect. Truthfully, she'd never wanted to fight the Qunari.

Kirkwall gives her little choices in life.

"You are saarebas," he growls, "I will cut your tongue out personally when you are defeated. I will be your arvaraad. It will be my gift to you, Basalit-an, my worthy rival." The swing of his sword nearly takes her head off. Will he defeat her? Mute her? Chain her? Will she become to them what Fenris was to the magisters?

Hawke steels herself and knows that if she does not fight back she will die. If she does not fight back, possibly Isabela will die and the Qunari will take her away. She should think of the nobles and the other innocents of Kirkwall but she knows that they don't matter to her. They are a waste. They would turn on her in an instant. They will turn on her as soon as they are safe. If they are safe. No. She knows that she doesn't care about the people of Kirkwall. Not really. Not really…

She hears Isabela's soft voice in her mind, teasing.  _Errand girl…_

Hawke narrows her eyes and lifts her staff, points it, hears the gasps in the room as she sends a force like a cannon hurling through the air, slamming into the Arishok. He's flung into the pillar, chunks of stone falling from it. The temperature drops substantially. Hawke draws deep, sending a fan of icicles screaming through the air. They slam into him. He groans but moves as if her attacks were but nuisances. He's fast, not as fast as she is but fast enough. His fingers clamp around her throat and squeeze. Light changes brightness, dimming, coming too bright, blinding. Fading so fast. She fights for breath, fights to get free. Her eyes close, her chest burns.

"Is this all you have, Hawke? You disappoint me."

He slams her into the pillar, once, twice, three times before his grip releases. She takes a deep breath, making a hollow, broken sound. Everything feels broken. Her mouth tastes like blood. He reaches down for her but she looks at him and he stumbles backward. It gives her enough time to stand, his outstretched fingers frost and blacken as his dark eyes narrow and regard her with disgust. A quick turn with the staff and the blade of her dagger takes his fingertips. She points the staff at him and sends another icicle the size of a fist flying toward him. It lodges in his chest before burying itself further with a flick of her staff. Blood solidifies but trickles out slowly.

She's no longer conscious of the nobles, of anyone other than the Arishok and Isabela. Her breath fogs in the chilly air. With a raise of her staff his head is pounded violently back; one of his horns is snapped in half. He yowls. Her fingertips touch the floor. Disembodied hands, like those of a grave rise from the fade, taking hold of the Arishok, trapping him. She moves forward, blood running down her face, over her eyes until one more force spell turns his head so brutally that there is a snapping bone sound. He crashes down. Hawke wheezes, shoulders hunched, exhausted. He is immobile. His eyes move around the room, settling on her. A promise of return. _No. You won’t have her._ She turns the staff with a savage twist, tearing his throat open.

Blood pumps freely. Even after he's dead. Her boots are drenched in blood, her face splattered. Her fingers have no feeling. The crowned head of the Viscount is next to her feet on its side, soaking in blood. His dead blue eyes gaze at her. There is noise all about her, screaming, cheering, she can't differentiate the sound and then she's being slammed into.

She looks around the room, numb. Finely dressed men and women are looking at her, smiling, hooting and cheering, clapping. People hug one another. People rejoice. Do they know she's there? Do they see her? Why are they not afraid? Shouldn't they be afraid? They have always been afraid.

Knight-Commander Meredith shines like the sun but her eyes are ice. Will Knight-Commander Meredith take her head here and now? She'd said she'd overlook her use of magic. But now the Qunari are defeated and Hawke is no longer relevant.

It takes Hawke a moment to realize that Isabela has her arms around her, is talking to her. The sight of her steadies Hawke. Isabela is okay. Isabela is safe. But she still has to ask. "Are you all right?"

She isn't sure if Isabela hears her. She isn't sure if she hears Isabela's response. Isabela wipes the blood from her face and then everyone is crowding around her and then Knight-Commander Meredith is making speeches and then everyone wants to talk to her and she can't see Isabela anymore.

xxx

Hawke's birthday cloak is in tatters. It had fallen away from her at some point during the duel with the Arishok. Hawke was swarmed by nobles, by supporters, by the worthy of society. Did they tear it from her? Did she let it fall away? Did she even notice?

Who cares? It was a stupid gift.

Isabela slips it over her own shoulders and fastens it into place. Kirkwall is littered with bodies. She should have never taken that Tome. No. She should never have brought it back. Everyone that died, that wasn't her fault. She didn't make the Qunari get their horns in a twist over the relic. So what if it's the foundation of their bloody way of life…?

Why did she bring it back…?

The moon hangs low and fat in the sky. Isabela hasn't been able to warm. Even the shitty cloak doesn't help. So much for all the coin she'd paid for it. That Arishok's blade had torn through it as if it were butter.

Where is Hawke…?

Aveline and the others have long gone, as have most of the nobles. Isabela has been pacing for too long. She's at the end of her rope when Hawke exits. Isabela doesn't quite stop her pacing. Hawke is bruised. Even in the moonlight Isabela can see it, can see how her footsteps are unsteady. Isabela’s ready to bitch her out for taking her damn time, for being so stupid to duel for her, to act as if she were somehow her bloody property.

Dumb sod.

She throws her arms around her. Hawke still hasn't regained the weight she lost from her mother's death. She still hasn't recovered from the Wounded Coast. No doubt she still hasn't recovered from her betrayal. Isabela holds her too tightly. Hawke cries out before quickly stifling the sound and carefully wrapping her arms around her.

Isabela pulls away near immediately. "I'm happy to see you." Hawke says. She sounds happy but tired.

_I thought you would have been long gone by now._

So even Hawke knew that she would leave her. Hawke was wise to her treachery. And she had still fought for her. Isabela wrings her hands nervously. She's sick to her stomach.

"You found the cloak," Hawke goes to her. "I looked for it. That's a relief."

"It's ruined," Isabela pushes her fingers through one of the rips. "Anyway, you don't need it anymore." Who'd have thought that Hawke would be named Champion of Kirkwall by the bloody Knight-Commander? If the head of the Templars can't find it in her heart to imprison Hawke or be done with her then… Hawke's place in Kirkwall is firmly established.

"It's the one thing you've given me. I do need it."

Isabela averts her eyes and ignores her. "How does it feel to be Champion of Kirkwall?"

Hawke blinks. "I don't know. I'm in…disbelief. It feels like a trick."

"You managed to stop the Arishok and save anyone who is anyone in Kirkwall. Including those who aren't anyone at all." She gives a small shrug of her shoulders, she offers a small, sad smile.

"I only saved one person who means a damn."

Isabela laughs softly, perhaps embarrassed but she isn't sure for whom. Hawke is so sentimental. "Don't act as if you could have left all those nobles to rot. You could have. You didn't." Hawke returns a shrug for the words. "You have a good heart. I… couldn't have done it."

"You're daft. You're standing here, aren't you? Without a Tome of Koslun. The Qunari can return to Par Vollen. You did the right thing." Hawke says. Isabela squirms uncomfortably. "I'm proud of you."

"Oh, stuff it."

"I'm serious."

"What will you do now that you're Champion?"

There's a long delay as Hawke moves closer to her, appearing to contemplate the question. "What does something like that mean, anyway?"

"That the Knight-Commander was afraid the nobles would make you Viscount then and there." They would have. Oh would they. Being the errand girl paid off big for Hawke. She's someone of influence now. A beautiful, rich, noble whose one shame has now made her the greatest thing Kirkwall has ever seen. There's no reason for her to hide anymore. "It means that you're loved by Kirkwall. That you're second only to the Knight-Commander. Don't you know what kind of power you have now?"

Hawke shakes her head. "I don't know. I don't care. I don't want this."

"What do you want?" Isabela moves as soon as Hawke is close enough to reach for her. It takes only a small sidestep, a slight shifting to be completely out of her reach. It makes her feel safer but it isn't enough. Everything's spiraling out of control. "On second thought…" Hawke coughs, looks at her hand and wipes it off on her pant leg. Isabela sees what looks like black or red on her hand. "Are you… are you all right?"

"Fine. I've been thinking—"

"Hawke, I need to—" Isabela waits for Hawke to go on but Hawke waits, looking at her patiently. All severity has left her expression. Hawke forgives too easily. Maker knows she isn't worth it. All she'll do is bring her trouble. She can see the gossip starting already—Viktoria Hawke, apostate noble fighting duels for thieving pirate whores. Isabela was not blind to how the men and women looked at Hawke as she fought. Hawke is attractive but people don't typically notice because she's acting like a tit or scowling or saying something cutting. But actions speak louder than words and she proved herself before Kirkwall. Maker, it's a wonder she put up with her as long as she did.

"What is it?" Hawke prompts gently.

"I can't. I can't do this." She knows that she sounds panicked.

Hawke narrows her eyebrows and then arches one cautiously. "Can't do  _what_?"

"Be here. In Kirkwall— I've been here too long. I can't stay."

There's a long silence. "You've just returned."

"I know."

"From when you took the Tome."

"I  _know_ ," Isabela retorts. Hawke is judging her. And she has every right to. It makes her defensive. Why can't she be better…?

Hawke turns around. She paces. It's been long since Isabela has seen her pace. She does it when she's fighting something. What is it that she's fighting, Isabela wonders. Hawke stops, hands on her hips, straightening herself before she turns to look at her. "What about Castillon?"

Is that what she meant to say? "It will be fine. As long as I keep my head down—"

"But why? Why now?" Her voice is stony, slivered with desperation. Hawke's fingers settle gently onto her shoulders; Isabela is rattled by the contrast. "Look—I know that you must be frightened but I will stay by your side, Isabela. I won't let Castillon have you."

She shakes her head, bows her chin. "It isn't enough."

"What  _will_  be enough?" She demands. "Haven't I—"

"Everything's changed."

"What has changed? Nothing has changed...!" Now it's Hawke that sounds panicked.

Isabela rips away from her. " _Everything_  has changed! Don't you get it? What happened today—that was… I don't do  _that_. I'm not that kind of person! I'm not  _you_. I'm not some bleeding heart who puts people ahead of myself."

"Yes, you are. You've done it before, Isabela. You did it when you aided those Blight refugees. You have a good heart." Hawke makes it sound as if it were a curse.

"And what has it bought me? A death sentence or something worse at the hands of Castillon. That bleeding Tome of Koslun was my only way out of it. If I stay here any more— I'll… I don't know," she says frustrated at her own lack of eloquence, at being unable to properly vocalize what she's feeling. She isn't quite sure that she knows what she's feeling. "It's wrong. It's all wrong. You're—you're changing  _me_. I don't bloody change for anyone," she says with a scoff.

"I…" Hawke shuffles helplessly where she stands. She looks uncharacteristically uncertain. "Would it be such a bad thing? To help people?" Hawke follows after her when Isabela begins to walk away. "I don't believe for a second that I've changed anything about you. I long ago gave up any notions of that," she says with a hint of bitterness. "There was goodness in your heart before you met me. You came back with that relic. You're the one who saved Kirkwall. Not me."

" _Please,_ " she says disgustedly, "I hate when you spout that drivel. Do you believe half of the shit you say?"

"Like it or not you care about Kirkwall. You aren't a selfish-whore like Aveline says. Maybe it's easier for you to think that but it isn't true." Hawke says, her voice rising as Isabela walks faster. "There are people here who love you. Who will forgive you anything. Face it—you're just making excuses."

"For what?"

"You aren't blameless in what happened. You don't want to see the damage that's been done. You don't want to face Aveline."

"Aveline!" Isabela laughs scornfully. Hawke gets it wrong again. She always gets it wrong. "You don't get it." She can't stop moving. She can't let Hawke stop her. Hawke takes her roughly by the shoulders, forcing Isabela to face her. It hurts. Her touch, her eyes, the fear and anger in her face. The reality and gravity of the situation manifests itself, leaving her terrified. She tries to loose herself but can't.

"Don't do this."

"Don't tell me what to do. You're nothing to me." Isabela doesn't know why she says it. Hawke's fingers fall away limply. "Sorry, I…" Isabela looks away. "I'm not like you. I don't give a damn about Kirkwall. The truth of it is that… I put my life on the line. I risked…" she sighs softly. "Maker, all of this scares the piss out of me."

"If you've something to say then say it."

There she is: the woman of ice from so long ago with a voice capable of cutting anyone down. It's her own doing, isn't it…? She's brought her back and she hates herself for it, wants to correct it, wants to make her eyes soft again. She rages against her every instinct, habit, survival and tells her the truth. "The Tome. Coming back…It wasn't about Kirkwall or Aveline or… I… I didn't do it for them. I did it for you. It was always about you."

The words take the armor, the walls, the cold from Hawke. All that's left of her is a broken woman, bloodied and battered, in love with a coward who's unwilling to stay.

_Don't look at me that way_. Isabela stares at her with parted lips but doesn't say the words. Hawke looks hopeful. Isabela feels faint. She turns. There are no blindfolds now and she wishes there were.

She doesn't look back. She'll be stuck if she does. She walks faster. She knows that Hawke is injured, hobbled, weakened from the past years, weeks, from the day long fighting, from the battle with the Arishok. She hears Hawke call out her name but ignores her. She walks and then runs and then sprints until Hawke's voice is no more, until she reaches the docks and slips onboard a ship, nestled with cargo in the darkness.

No one will find her. Out of sight, out of mind.

She feels sad about it. No, bad about it. No, maybe just mad about it. She isn't sure. Feelings have never been a specialty of hers. She's behaved for too long. Now…she'll move on with her life and take to plundering and partying and stealing and whoring.

It's strange to imagine herself with another lover. Won't they just…disappoint her…?

No. Not if it's a party. Not if there are drinks involved. And gambling.

Her eyes hurt.

It will be fine. The Tome of Koslun incident was a fluke. It isn't who she really is. She leans against one of the many boxes in the cargo area and takes long, deep breaths. Everything is pale and empty. The rocking of the sea is usually a comfort. It isn't this time because she's below deck. It's no different than being in the holds.

Once she's away from Kirkwall it will be safe to come out and she will be reassured. She wonders what the tranquil feel like. Is it anything like this…?

As if she were an apostate. But if she were, she'd have fun with it, unlike dull Hawke who uses it as an excuse to feel more miserable about herself. Not that she'll be miserable anymore. Now Hawke's going to be the one leading the high life. Without Isabela there she'll move on. Maybe she'll even marry some Orlesian noble and have a litter of children. Disgusting.

Will Hawke move on?

_I will stay by your side._

Hawke will move on.

It's silly. What's she giving up, really? She doesn't have her own ship and she was growing tired of the Hanged Man. There's only so much that she can take of Merrill and Varric. Oh, she'll write them. And Hawke… she wasn't ever meant to be serious. She wasn't.

_I only saved one person who means a damn._

Hawke will forget about her, she tells herself again. It will be someone of better standing. Definitely a noble. She'll lead a boring, domesticated life.

_You know I can deny you nothing._

That will teach Hawke to be stupid. She's doing her a favor. This is a life lesson. Hawke should take it to heart.

Minutes pass.

She can't get comfortable. She twists and turns before standing and pacing. It's been long enough now that she can go above deck. If someone demands compensation she'll pay coin and if that isn't enough she'll throw in a little extra for incentive.

She isn't attached anymore.

The night is freezing. Kirkwall is still on fire. Isabela watches the city get smaller and smaller. Even the fresh sea air isn't enough to settle her. What will Hawke do? What will Hawke think? How long will it take Hawke to forget her?

She doesn't want Hawke to forget about her. _Then turn back, you fool._

No.

They're bad for each other. This is best.

Isabela takes deep gulps of air to steady herself. She hangs on to the railing for life. This isn't a mistake. This is what's right. For her. She needs to think about herself again. What will be left if she doesn't…?

She notices the cloak around her shoulders and yanks at it, desperate to unclasp it and have it be away from her. She balls the material up in her hand and rears her hand back, ready to throw it overboard and let the ocean have it.

_It's the one thing you've given me. I do need it._

Isabela brings a hand to her mouth; she paces and then settles the cloak over her shoulders. It takes her a few minutes to put it into place with her trembling fingers. It's too long on her. It's meant to be worn by someone who's a champion. But it's no longer suitable for someone who doesn't need to hide.

Isabela pulls the cloak over her head. It's cold. She watches Kirkwall. She says goodbye to the past six years of her life.

_I'm proud of you._

Hawke and her damnable influence. Isabela curls her fingers, fingernails digging deep into the palms of her hands. She covers her face with her hands and breathes for several minutes, heating her hands, fogging her line of vision before lowering them.

She  _will_  forget Kirkwall. She  _will_  forget Viktoria Hawke.

She's lived her life alone. She'll continue to live her life alone. She only needs herself.

Everything will be all right.

 


	13. Chapter 13

Hawke stands naked before the mirror with flat eyes. Bruises paint her face. Her ribs are swollen. Her arms are lined in blues, yellows and greens. Purple grape-sized welts circle her neck like a noose. She touches her ribs but doesn't have the energy to wince. They can be counted with a glance.

Three days have passed since she dueled the Arishok. The pain is as sharp as ever. She wraps the bandaging around her ribs and takes care not to pull any stitches free. She has stopped coughing up blood. That is something.

She dresses and pretends nothing has changed.

xxx

The estate reminds Hawke of a mausoleum. She sifts through the books in the library. Anders has left his political tracts. Aveline has left 'friendly' reminders on the laws of Kirkwall.

Down in the wine cellar she recovers several bottles that she's had stored for some time. Many are gifts of thanks from the nobles in the Viscount's Keep. All of them know her name now and if the notes attached to the wine are any indication, they wish to know her better.

Hawke rips the notices away, letting them fall to the floor before taking the bottles upstairs and uncorking one. She thinks to find a goblet for the wine but chooses to drink from the bottle instead.

Isabela is capricious. She comes and she goes. It's only a matter of time until she returns. Maybe she was angry the last time they spoke but she wouldn't just go. She wouldn't just not come back.

Hawke knows she just has to be patient. She just has to wait.

"Is there a particular reason you've taken an interest in patrolling the docks with me?" Aveline asks. She looks at Hawke who stares diligently ahead, now and then turning her head at the slightest rustle. Her eyes search.

"You've never minded my help on patrols."

"I imagine you'd be more keen to it now that people know…what you are." Aveline says. Hawke frowns. "Who you are," she corrects apologetically. She watches men and women in the distance spot them, spot Hawke and quickly move on. Aveline is unsure if Hawke is frightening them away or if they're merely making room for the Champion of Kirkwall. Are the hooligans of Kirkwall not engaging in crime or are they learning to hide it better? Being with Hawke ruins the element of surprise. They don't pay as much attention to city-guardsmen, deeming them to be inconsequential, perhaps easy to take out. Aveline looks at Hawke. "You're looking for her."

"What?"

"Don't 'what' me, Hawke. I know you better than that." They walk along the pier but Aveline sees no one. She'll ask Hawke to not join her in the future. It's a pity but things have settled down in Kirkwall and Hawke's become a deterrent, not an asset, on patrols. Hawke stops in front of a ship, the sailors overlooking them curiously. "When is she due back?" Hawke stares into the ocean. "Or are you telling me that you gave her that blasted Tome and fought a duel for her for nothing?"

"I didn't do it so she'd owe me any favors."

"Then you did it because you love her and she's paid you back by disappearing." Aveline sighs. "You're no good to me on patrols like this. You're still injured from everything. Why not at least see Anders?"

"I don't want to owe that man anything."

"I'm not a fan of his but you have to admit that his transgressions have paled next to Isabela's." Aveline sighs inwardly. All she does around Hawke these days is sigh. She can't say that this outcome is unexpected. Is Hawke as blind as she appears? Or is she simply willing to forgive Isabela anything? If nothing else…she doesn't appear too shaken. Is she in denial? "Hawke, what will you do if she's gone?"

"She's not gone."

"But… if she is?"

Hawke looks at Aveline. "She isn't."

The sincerity in her eyes, in her voice, makes Aveline feel ashamed. She drops the topic.

xxx

Hawke re-reads the invitation for the Champion of Kirkwall banquet looking more befuddled and irritated by the moment.

Varric takes the invitation from her and laughs.  _Attendance is mandatory._  "Finally! You're somebody in Kirkwall. Don't give me the stink eye, Hawke. I wasn't a part of this." He waves the invitation, "but you can bet your Champion ass that I'll be in attendance."

"Are dwarves allowed to attend these sorts of parties?"

"You're the Champion, Hawke. I'm betting you can get away with anything. Including inviting a few dwarves. I wonder what Blondie would think about the Templars throwing a celebration for an apostate?"

"No doubt he'd think it a trap."

"What do you think?" Varric asks.

"I suppose it' s a possibility." She takes a seat on the stairs of her home. Varric climbs the stairs slowly and takes a seat beside her. She has been elusive since the battle with the Arishok. No doubt Isabela's behind her reticent state. Varric smells wine on her breath. "If I'm to attend I should probably have a date. I have a handsome man in mind. He may not be tall but that only means he has better access to all my special areas."

"Hawke! Stop. You'll make Bianca jealous with all that harlotry," he shakes his head and looks at her. Hawke looks at their feet still contemplating the invitation. "You're looking at this the wrong way. Think of it. You came to Kirkwall a Fereldan refugee with nothing to your name. And now you're one of the most powerful figures Kirkwall has ever seen. Nobles are throwing you parties. Don't you know how rare it is that they do anything for someone else?"

"If they're throwing me a party, they want something."

"Well…there's no arguing that. Only one way to find out. And don't worry, if there's a cutpurse there after your coin I wouldn't mind pinning them to the wall, either."

Hawke smiles faintly. "Yes, of course. You remember our romantic first encounter as clearly as I do."

He's wary of when she jokes too much. "Hawke…"

"Varric, don't. Don't use that tone of voice. Don't say my name like that, all right?" Hawke stands and goes to the kitchen. She uncorks another bottle of wine and pours him a glass. "This one is from the DeLauncet's. Can you believe I was meant to be a part of that family? If Mother had married the Compte, that is. I've never met them."

"Yeah? Consider yourself lucky. Have you seen them?" He takes the glass to the table; she does likewise with the bottle. "Looks like your bruises have gone away. On your face, anyway. Someone must have told the party-planning committee that you were ready to make your debut. Beating the Arishok in a duel. I couldn't make this shit up."

"Jealous?"

"It just sounds so…outlandish! I thought I'd see you beat a dragon in nothing but your knickers and a dagger—"

"Oh, Varric! You've thought of me in my knickers? You scoundrel. It sounds like your imagination needs an extra kick. You didn't have to stop disrobing me  _there_."

"Before," he coughs, "I saw the Knight-Commander knight you Champion! You  _should_  be leading the high life." Varric says. Hawke rolls her eyes. "But… you aren't. You're keeping to yourself, wandering Kirkwall like some lost spirit. You haven't come to the Hanged Man."

"And you've missed me terribly, I'm sure. My clever ploy has worked. Just think of it, Varric. It's night, we have wine, you're roguishly handsome and some have said I'm not too terrible on the eyes… Do you know the kind of stamina an apostate of my caliber has?"

"Funny. That's the first time I've heard you brag about any of your 'special abilities'."

Hawke scowls. "I was only flirting. Anyway, I thought you should know. For future reference. And current reference, if need be."

"Finally starting to relax? You don't have to hide anymore. That's new."

"For all the good it does me." She takes a long drink of the wine, pauses. She sighs softly and runs a hand through her hair. "What good is the title of 'Champion' if it doesn't let me into your trousers?"

"My trousers happen to be very tough to get into. Don't take it personally, Hawke." Varric looks at her. A pale smile still sits on her lips but her eyes are empty. He looks around the kitchen and spots five empty bottles of wine and looks back at her. "Any word…?"

She doesn't look at him, tracing the curves of the bottle with her fingertips. "From who?"

"You-know-who."

"That sounds very ominous."

Varric wishes she'd look at him. She speaks as if to someone who isn't there. "Do you think she'll come back?"

"Of course she will. She just needs to get…whatever it is out of her system." Her eyes are downcast. "You know what I wish, Varric?"

"What's that, Kid?"

She smiles ruefully, her voice quiet. "I wish everyone would stop asking."

xxx

The celebration banquet is held in the Viscount's Keep. Hawke has never seen so many people in the space. Everyone is dressed to the nines. Nobles dance and drink while the city-guard and Templars are split between mingling and standing against the walls looking aggressive.

Hawke can't meet Knight-Captain Cullen's eyes. She stands awkwardly by the banquet table, unsure of where Varric has gone off to after he slipped away with Aveline's approach. Aveline said little, reminding her only that the Templars weren't to be trusted and that if she needed someone reliable to come to her.

But neither Templar nor city-guard had done anything to save her mother. Nor had she. She won't trust anybody. If only her mother were here tonight. Or her father or Bethany or Carver. They might care about it. She doesn't particularly. Varric thinks of it only as amusement and Aveline acts as if it's terribly inconvenient for her.

What would Isabela think…? No doubt she'd ridicule her and maybe pull her to the Viscount's chambers to have her way with her. What is she doing now? Having her way with others? Kissing others? Hawke frowns and turns too suddenly, smacking straight into a waiter with a platter of drinks. They crash to the floor in a splash of broken glass and champagne. Hawke pales. "I'm sorry," she says breathlessly. The faces in the crowd blur once again but she spots Varric, shaking his head and smiling and Aveline in another corner looking as if she were needlessly causing trouble.

"No, no, Champion, I should have been watching where I was going," the elven waiter apologizes profusely, quickly kneeling to pick up the mess. Hawke tries to help but a group of servants quickly stop her. She watches helplessly, her face gone crimson at the spectacle.

"That was well-played," says Knight-Captain Cullen. Hawke hadn't noticed him approach. He gleams in his Templar armor and is as handsome as ever. "Many of the nobles have been regarding you apprehensively all evening. This…," he gestures to the mess, "proves that you're as human as any of them. You may soon have some visitors." He smiles.

She'll never be as human as any of them. And not one of them would think that for more than a minute. Hawke remembers Cullen, bleeding, screaming 'abomination' at her. She lowers her head. "I shouldn't be here."

"Normally I'd agree. But you did stop the Arishok. And even Knight-Commander Meredith has given you her blessing." He looks out amongst the crowd. "Though I admit I feel rather foolish that you were an apostate for all these years and I never knew it. Tell me, was all your aid to the Templars just to get us off track? Or did you truly mean to help us?"

"Mages are dangerous," she says too sharply, garnering a few looks from some of the nobles who smile and preen as her attention falls to them. "Though—though I suppose maybe not all of them." She doesn't know whose benefit she says this for. She doesn't understand any of this. There are two young women who elbow one another, their cheeks rosy as they gaze upon her. She looks away from them and to Cullen and then away again. "This is mad."

Cullen laughs. "You'll get used to the attention in time. I thought you'd be used to this after recovering your estate. You've done well for yourself here. You did well with the Deep Roads expedition and in recovering your estate. Now you're Champion. As a fellow Fereldan, I ought to be proud."

"But you aren't."

Cullen narrows her eyes thoughtfully on her. "It's the damndest thing— I know only of your good deeds and yet… I'm uneasy around you."

"If it makes you feel any better, I'm uneasy, too." She smiles nervously and wishes that Aveline or Varric or anybody would come over to interrupt them. "I'm an apostate. You're a Templar. If we weren't nervous around one another… things would be terribly awry, wouldn't they?"

He smiles lightly. "I suppose you have a fair point, Hawke. That said… I don't know if you recall what I told you of the Ferelden Circle." Hawke glances at him and nods. She remembers the stories he told her of that place. Her Amell cousin was there. She wonders if it's true that he stopped the Blight. "You'll have to excuse me if I'm wary."

"I'd say all the dead Templars and mages have good reasons to be wary of one another." The elf waiter beneath her has picked up the mess and another one has arrived, presenting her and Cullen with champagne. She takes a flute absently and drinks. She scans the audience. "I suppose you'll be keeping an eye on me."

"It's my job to keep an eye on loose apostates."

"I'm a loose apostate now, am I?" Has Varric been exaggerating her legend again?

Cullen looks at her and sputters. "'That—that’s not what I meant, Serah."

Hawke finishes her glass of champagne. "Then your vigilance is only professional."

The Knight-Captain coughs. "Of course. However… I cannot say I do not take pleasure in my duty." Hawke's cheeks heat though she does not know whether it's from Cullen's words or the drink. Her eyes continue to scan the crowd. "Is there someone you're looking for? Perhaps they've misplaced their invitation."

Hawke stops and looks at him, unaware that she'd been searching. "Maybe they're running late." She says. Isabela never needed an invitation nor would she have been invited. Nor would she have come. She shakes her head and smiles, feeling irreparably sad and ashamed for it.

Knight-Captain Cullen looks at her as if she's worth something, as if they hadn't tried to kill one another not so long ago. If it weren't for Merrill they might both be dead. "I'm hard pressed to think of anyone who would keep you waiting, Lady Hawke."

Another wry smile pulls at her lips. "You have a silver tongue, Knight-Captain." She thinks of his blade pressed to her throat. She has fallen prey to silver tongues before. She won't again.

xxx

Merrill receives the letter from Isabela and runs to Hightown. It takes her hours to get there (she's left her yarn behind) but eventually she arrives, letter clutched in hand. The letter is lengthy. Isabela talks about the food that she's eating, nothing like what they have in Kirkwall what with the spices that burst in your mouth with flavor. She talks about the sea, the plundering for 'booty' that she's been doing, as well as the many men and women she's been 'getting to know'.

She has little lines for everyone. Tell Aveline to get the stick out of her arse, tell Fenris to pay her a visit in Antiva, she's got some chains she'd like for him to try out, Anders could stand to be out in the sunlight more often. She's written her own letter to Varric so there's nothing to pass along to him and of course, she misses Merrill terribly.

But does she really…?

Isabela has asked no other words to be delivered. She has asked about nothing or anyone. Does she care how anyone is doing? How she is?

It's terribly confusing. And she'd been so happy to hear anything from her just a moment ago.

Bodahn lets her into the home, polite as always—Merrill isn't quite sure that either he or Sandal know that Hawke probably doesn't want her in the home. But it's something of a momentous occasion and exceptions should be made for those kinds of events. At least, she thinks so.

"Hawke…?" Merrill calls out. No response. She turns to ask Bodahn but neither he nor Sandal are present. Where do they live, anyway? Under the cupboards in the kitchen…? Ah, the home has so many doors… Merrill climbs the stairs to the second floor and opens the first door on the left.

It's Leandra's room. Had she ever known that? It smells different than the rest of the home. It still makes like Leandra's perfume water. Has Hawke has changed a thing about it? She closes the door guiltily and keeps exploring, going to Hawke's room.

It's morning still; fresh sunlight pours through the windows, bathing Hawke. Hawke's robe is settled halfway down her back. Merrill can see the delicate curves of her back as well as the ribbons wrapped around her. Merrill gasps. She isn't sure if it's for her beauty or for the bandages, all these weeks later? Hawke turns sharply, wearing only the robe and her small clothes. Merrill's face reddens. As does Hawke's though Merrill isn't sure if that's from embarrassment or rage. "Maker! Don't you knock?" Hawke asks agitatedly. Merrill fumbles some apology. Hawke yanks the robe up and ties it tightly at the waist, grimacing as she does so, bringing a hand to her ribs.

"Are you all right?" Merrill rushes forward, not knowing why she's doing it or that she's even doing it.

Hawke takes a step back, torn between lifting a hand to keep her back and another to touch to her obviously pained body. "What the void are you doing here?"

"Are you all right?" Merrill asks again.

"I'm  _fine._ " She winces at the word and closes her eyes for a moment before straightening. Merrill feels bad for her. It's a very strange feeling as she's quite sure that Hawke has never felt any such way for her in all the years that they've known one another, choosing instead to ridicule and insult her at every turn. But… she did fight a duel for Isabela, didn't she? She saved her. And now…Isabela is gone and Hawke is…grimacing and bandaged in her large, empty home. "I'll ask again—why are you here?"

"Oh." Merrill tries to think but sees only her long legs. Focus. She lifts her face and meets her pale, almost translucent eyes that spark. Merrill lowers her gaze to her lips. Creators, what's wrong with her? It's only that she's never seen Hawke in so little clothing. She's not used to thinking of her as a person but as a representation of all the ignorant ideas she can't stand in others. "It's…" she considers but can't quite remember. "I came… I came to ask if you'd heard anything. From… from Isabela."

Hawke bites her lower lip and slowly and methodically makes her way to the bed to take a seat on the edge. She keeps her hands at her sides, gripping the bedding painfully. Her long, dark hair hides any expression she might make. "No."

"Oh."

Hawke looks to the dead fireplace for a long time, seemingly heavy in thought. Then, slowly, her eyes turn in Merrill's direction. They start at her bare feet and then tread upward to her face. Hawke has never appraised her so closely before and Merrill feels herself grow nervous though she doesn't know why. "Have you?" she doesn't meet her eyes.

Merrill hesitates. "Yes."

"Is she… is she all right?"

Merrill part's her lips. Oh. Dread wolf. This was a mistake. Why had she run up here so enthusiastically? Isabela hadn't mentioned Hawke. She assumed Hawke must have received a correspondence as well. But she hasn't. She clearly hasn't. Her cheeks are so red now, as flushed as they are in the middle of winter and Merrill can't figure if she's cold or if she's hot or if there are tears of pain in her eyes or whether they're from her injuries or from some other hurt. Maybe her eyes are just glassy, like a doll's. Hawke has always looked like a beautiful, expensive doll. One that would be marked down because of the scar on her face or the apostate brand, she's not sure. "She's all right. She has—" she stops awkwardly but continues when Hawke flicks her eyes to her. "She's been eating good food with lots of spices." It's better to say that than—than the other things. Though Merrill doesn't think she has any particular reason to be nice to Hawke for.

"Okay."

Merrill doesn't know whether Hawke's response is an appropriate response for what she's just said. She takes a tentative step closer. "Have you been eating, Hawke?"

"Food hasn't had a taste for a while. Something about the spices or…" Her voice is far away. "I'm never very hungry."

"When I first came to Kirkwall and left my clan… I never ate. I was just lonely and empty. I wanted for nothing."

"Your point?" The edge in her voice is blunted, almost soft.

"I miss Isabela so much. I… if you missed her." She pauses. "How can you not miss her…? You must miss her." Hawke stands slowly, shuffles closer, looks down at her, eyes stabbing her into place before moving to her desk. "Hawke." Hawke stops at the desk though Merrill isn't sure if it's to listen to her or because she needs a resting spot. "It wasn't until you fought that duel for Isabela that I knew you cared for her. That you could care for anything. It was special to me." Hawke scoffs. "And I'm sure it was special to Isabela, too. If it meant nothing then she wouldn't have left. When do you think she'll come back?" Merrill asks.

Hawke turns to her with no expression. "You tell me."

"Why would I know?" She doesn't know.

"Because I didn't know her at all. I was stupid to think…" Her words fall like hammers on nails. "She'll come back. If she needs something."

"Why did she go? Did she say something? I thought…" Merrill thinks back to the birthday party she had thrown, how she had asked in her own way about what sort of present she might get Hawke. "I thought she was getting settled."

"Why does she do anything?" her eyes fall on the letter in Merrill's hand. Merrill doesn't know whether to crumple it or hide it. She just sees the color flood back to Hawke's eyes and how they darken. "She's a selfish bitch who only cares for herself." She turns her back to Merrill. She sounds so tired. "I don't care where she's gone. I don't give a damn if she ever comes back. I for one am tired of picking up after her." Hawke picks up a wine bottle on her desk, her fingers trembling.

"I'm sure she doesn't want you to always pick up after her," Merrill says shakily. And she doesn't know why but she wants to cry. For Hawke and for Isabela. It's peculiar. She never wanted them to be together. Maybe she only wants to cry for herself because her only true friend is gone, she left without a goodbye and the loneliness is unbearable.

"No she only wants to take what she wants and to the void with everything else." She takes several deep breaths before continuing. Her head is bowed lower. "Was that enough of a chat about the thieving whore or should we continue?"

Merrill flinches at her tone. "Don't say that. You can't mean it." She swallows the lump in her throat. She remembers when Isabela told her Hawke would cut the tongue off any man who said that about her. And now… She asked too soon. But it's been months. She thinks to Isabela's letter and the words within that hint at what Hawke says. "Hawke… you're upset and I've pushed you. I didn't mean to pry..." She gathers her courage. "I'll ask again…when…when…"

"Ask again when my bones have finished mending." She uncorks the bottle but sets it down angrily. The bottle rolls off the desk and shatters on the floor.

Wine and broken glass splash onto Hawke's bare feet. Merrill can't immediately tell what is wine and what is blood. Hawke clutches at her heart as if trying to tear it out for an offering or sacrificing it for any offense it might have caused.

xxx

Hawke's invited to many parties. She's invited to more parties than when no one knew she was an apostate. It's difficult to get used to.

Months pass.

She tells herself she's watching water and waiting for it to boil. A distraction would be best. There is a stack of invitations and letters on her writing desk. Most of them address her as 'Champion' or 'Lady Hawke'. A good deal of them are perfumed, signed with flourish.

One of them is from an Antivan girl named Isabella with two ls. Hawke burns the invitation and continues to rifle through them. None of them draw her attention. Eventually she stands to wander the night. The nights are cool with a splendor of stars stretched out brightly across the dark skies.

The infinite expanse makes her lonely. Isabela enjoyed the stars. They'd made love beneath them. But Isabela would never put it that way. She would never say that they'd 'made love'. Can you if it's one-sided and only a diversion for another? What could she have done to make her stay? Hadn't she done everything? She hadn't pressured her. She'd given her the Tome. She'd refused to relinquish her to the Qunari. She'd overlooked her indiscretions. Had she been weak? Pathetic?

What if she'd needed to be stronger? She  _will_  be stronger if she returns. She  _will_  be better if she returns. She only wants for her to return.

Hawke takes sharp, panicking breaths. What if she doesn't come back? It's been months and there's been no word. She's written to others but has said nothing to her. Is she so forgettable? Is she so lacking? Did she mean nothing to her at all? Had her mother been wrong? Had they all been deceived?

How could she just  _leave_?

Her eyes sting and she quickly wipes them though there's no one that she can spot in close proximity. She continues to walk aimlessly. For months she has been in a fugue and there is nothing that can help it. The wine, at least, normalizes it. The wine gives her a reason.

How could she have been so stupid to love someone so incapable of love? Everyone warned her, Isabela herself and she still let herself…

"Champion!"

Hawke lifts her head. There is a couple in the distance. He, tall, handsome with pale eyes and blond hair, the woman on his arm, smaller, the color of caramel with eyes like amber. Hawke goes still. They approach her, smiling. The woman isn't Isabela. She's younger, dressed in a suitable noble dress, chocolate hair falling in waves over her shoulders.

For the first time in months Hawke feels a stirring of desire. The woman looks back at her, smiling as if she knows it. They introduce themselves as husband and wife, Alan and Isadora, no one she's ever heard of. They invite her to a party. She walks into a large estate where music and wine flow freely. The party attendants part and break into conversation, all eyes on the three of them, most pointedly on Hawke.

"We've hoped to see you at the parties," Alan says.

"But you've been keeping to yourself," Isadora takes her elbow, her fingers sliding upward before wrapping an arm around hers. Hawke's looks at her and then at the husband. "Naughty Champion."

"I imagine you're used to maintaining your privacy," Alan says. "Kirkwall is not particularly forgiving of apostates."

"And you are?" Hawke asks. He chuckles. Everyone is looking at them. "I've never heard of anyone in Kirkwall being friendly to apostates," the woman leans into her arm. Hawke pulls away.

"Isadora, give the Champion her space. She's shy."

Hawke scowls. Now that she's created her distance from the couple she sees others in the crowd coming towards her. Soon she's surrounded, introductions thrown in her direction, questions, she feels hands on her and isn't quite sure whom they belong to. And there is so much perfume. They all smile too brightly.

She listens to them tell the legend of her exploits, express their sympathies for her dear departed mother and ask too many questions about any romantic involvements. They want to see magic. She can tolerate the clamor for only minutes before escaping to the outside.

She leans into a pillar for some time, closing her eyes and letting the cold wash over her hot skin. None of it feels real. People fear her. They have only ever feared her. Now they forgive her? Now they want to get to know her? Why not when it would have made things easier for her family? This is a dream. A nightmare. She hasn't been sleeping. She closes her eyes and keeps them that way until she feels a hand trailing up along her stomach.

"Retiring so early?" The woman's Antivan accent slurs her words in ways that bring life and color to the old language. "I had hoped we would spend more time together."

"I'm not much for overzealous strangers at parties." She remembers the one Isabela threw her. After they'd gone upstairs, after they had kissed, hadn't it all been perfect? It had felt perfect. She doesn't know whether to be angry at Isabela or herself. Was it all a lie? Was she crazy to think she cared? "Where's your husband?"

"Probably with Seneschal Bran. It does not matter. He has his playthings. I have mine. I see the way that you look at me, Champion." She strokes her arm and presses against her. Hawke takes a slow, unsteady breath. "Do I remind you of somebody?" Hawke doesn't respond. She glides her fingers along her face. "Spend the night with me. I've been  _dying_ to be with an apostate. I want to see everything you can do." She stands on her tiptoes and presses her lips to Hawke's.

Hawke allows the contact but does not return her kiss. The woman is beautiful but she is not Isabela. What if Isabela is here somewhere, watching? What if this is a test? No. She will resist anything. She will resist anyone until Isabela comes back to her. She has to come back to her.

Hawke takes her shoulders firmly and presses her to the pillar. Isadora laughs. "Please don't tell me you'll disappoint me." Her laughter follows Hawke as she walks away.

Will she ever hear Isabela laugh again? Does Isabela even think of her? Hawke's fingers curl into fists, angry tears misting her eyes.

xxx

The basket of food is sitting on the kitchen counter. Hawke meanders to it and looks through the various fruits, cheeses and breads in it. The meal is meager but sufficient. There's a small note attached to it.

_All your food has gone bad! Did you notice? It isn't much but I brought this. Please eat it. It isn't poisoned, I swear._

_-Merrill_

Hawke narrows her eyes gently. For months on end she has been getting food and various treats from all the nobles of Kirkwall, she's even received small gifts from some of the people of Lowtown and Darktown. In the beginning she paid attention. Somewhere along the way, she stopped noticing.

So often she's been foul-spirited and has sent Bodahn and Sandal away. Did they spirit the food away or did Merrill? Hawke can't remember the last time she entered the kitchen. She usually heads straight to the wine cellar.

Merrill has brought her food and gone so far as to say that she hasn't poisoned it. She remembers when she spat on her gift after Carver died. Has she been unfair to her? She isn't sure anymore.

She carefully picks a fat grape from the vine and tugs it free, bringing it to her lips and biting.

xxx

"What are you doing?" Hawke demands.

She hasn't been to the Hanged Man in ages. She hasn't gone tonight, she's only passing through Lowtown in her middle of the night walks. He's in a small alley with several bags in tow. One of them has a ship in a bottle. Hawke recognizes it as the one that she gave to Isabela. Her anger mounts and before she knows it she's racing at him and shouting.

The next instant he's shoved into the wall, her forearm pinning him by the throat. "This is hers! You can't throw it away as if it were nothing!" She presses on his throat to emphasize his point, making him gag. His fingers dig into her arm, trying to get it away and it takes her several moments to realize what she's doing, that he wants her to let go. She releases him.

He pulls back into the wall fighting for air, taking broken breaths, rubbing at his neck. He looks at her as if she's mad. Maybe she is mad. Maybe what little sense she had she's lost entirely. "You can't throw it away," she repeats quietly.

"Her things have been in that room for over a year and a half now! Varric paid for a year of the rent. He must have forgotten to keep paying. Or maybe he realized she's not coming back. I could make coin off that room—"

"Coin!" she seethes.

"Coin. Maybe you don't need it Champion, but I do to keep the Hanged Man going. I've held on to it for long enough haven't I?"

Hawke feels dizzy. "I'll take over the rent. I'll bloody pay it if that's all you care about." She knows she's being unfair. "Sorry. Just go. I'll take care of the rest of this. You'll have your coin soon enough. Has anyone else taken over the room?"

"No."

She nods absently. Corff leaves, happy to be away from her. She remains in the alley. It smells of piss and ale. Hawke grits her jaw and stoops, beginning to dig through the items Corff collected. There are all the hats she gave her. Clothing. Several of the friend-fiction stories that she wrote. She finds one for Fenris and Anders and smiles faintly. She sets the little stories aside. She'll give them to Merrill.

She doesn't rummage much further. Is this all of Isabela's life? Contained in a few sacks? How did she live that way? Willingly?

Hawke drags the belongings back inside. The few customers of the Hanged Man raise their pints to her but she ignores them. She blushes at the dark look Corff gives her. She can't remember the last time she felt so ashamed. Upstairs in Isabela's room she finds Corff hadn't finished emptying the room. There are a few things on the dressers. Hawke looks through the room, remembering her.

She finds a cloth and wipes off the multiple layers of dust. She sweeps. She considers taking a bath in the tub but doesn't. She returns the hats to the corner where they were before. The other items of unknown origin she leaves in the bags.

She sits on the bed. She can't figure whether it feels differently or not. She lies down on it and searches for any trace or scent of her. She can't. She wants to cry. She won't. She sits up with panic in her heart. She looks at the door waiting for her to come through it but she doesn't. She lies back down clumsily. For an hour or so she falls into restless sleep. She wakes up confused and unsure of where she is. Happiness quickly gives way hollowness.

She stands and searches the room with her eyes again. They fall onto the gift. Finally she lifts the ship in a bottle.

_I'm used to stealing things, not receiving them._

Hawke remembers how that made her happy and sad at the time. Sad that Isabela received nothing, happy that she had been able to give her even one small thing. And then she'd asked her about the Qunari.

_What have I done? What do you mean? Who in Kirkwall likes the Qunari? I'm expected to?_

_You're lying to me._

_No. I'm not._

Hawke isn't sure whether she's angrier at Isabela for lying, herself for having her doubts and not pressing the matter further or again at herself for wanting so desperately to believe her. Time after time, year after year, Isabela lied to her. It cost the lives of countless of innocents in Kirkwall. For all her anger at herself, at Merrill, at Anders, what have they done in comparison to the repercussions of Isabela's actions?

Maybe mages aren't the real monsters after all. Hawke wonders how she was fooled for so long. Was she so lonely that she was willing to forgive her everything? Is it her fault? She feels herself choking with bitterness and hurls the ship in the bottle to the dead fireplace, watching it shatter, as if that would save her, break the spell.

xxx

She's become tired of how people touch her hair and twirl it around their fingers so she cuts it.

Somehow the people of Kirkwall have claimed ownership of her because she has saved them, because she's an apostate and they know it and they've let her live. Maybe they know she has hated herself for it, in some ways still hates herself for what she is. They know she's like a loose criminal with the people of Kirkwall as her warden. They take advantage of it. They demand her attention and her time, her conversation. They touch her and ask her to perform magic as if she were a jester meant for entertainment.

She isn't theirs.

She thinks cutting the hair will help.

She receives less attention for it—initially, but not enough to put her at ease. She's never had short hair before and it feels foreign. It's longer than Merrill's, falls to the nape of her neck, falls over her eyes. Not too short. But her fingers keep searching for what it's missing, still expecting for it to be there.

Varric tells her she's only succeeded in cutting her hair—now the fine people of Kirkwall will be more drawn to the sort of beautiful woman who might cut her hair just to spite others.

The job is half-done.

Another disappointment.

Nothing gives her pleasure or comfort anymore.

xxx

Hawke meets with Knight-Commander Meredith from time to time. The Gallows is not welcoming. She thinks of the mages that she has delivered to the Templars and to the Gallows over the years. She made the right decision. Apostates aren't safe. She's yet to meet ones that are. Merrill isn't. Anders isn't. She isn't.

The gold slave statues cover their eyes but Hawke shifts in their presence, feels her body tense, feeling judged by them. It's better in Knight-Commander Meredith's study. Meredith sits across from her, writing notices with a quill and deliberate, confident strokes. How many mages lives has she ended with those strokes? As many as with swords?

"You look deep in thought, Champion." Meredith sets the quill aside to look at her.

"Your task must be a difficult one. Gauging wrong from right."

"On the matter of mages the task is quite clear." Meredith stands, hands on the table to look at her. "Do you have difficulty differentiating between the two?" Hawke doesn't answer right away. "Your record speaks for itself. In recent years you have captured more apostates and runaways mages than any member of the Order." She chuckles. "What a curse for you to be born with magic in your veins. You are meant to be a Templar."

"You…are kind."

"How does it  _feel_  to be a mage? You're not even a mage. That requires careful monitoring and instruction from the Chantry and Templar Order. You're an apostate."

Hawke's body is tense. It takes her a moment to realize she is intimidated by the woman in front of her. She can't recall a time she's ever been intimidated by anybody. She remembers how cleanly Meredith had sliced the head off the Saarebas. "Magic is a curse that I have never wanted. I can't remember a time that I haven't struggled with it."

"Struggled?" Meredith seizes the word.

"I can control it." She thinks of how she ripped the men apart at the Wounded Coast.

"Can you?"

"Yes. You've seen that I can."

Meredith narrows her eyes on her. She walks around the desk and sits. Hawke sees herself reflected in her armor, distorted and changed. She lifts her head to look at Meredith. The woman is strong and unflinching, beautiful and ruthless. She's heard others describe her in the same way. Would that be so bad? Are she and Meredith so different? "Perhaps there is some truth to your words. Otherwise, you would have long ago been apprehended or at least noticed by the Order in some way."

Hawke thinks of the tip of Cullen's sword digging into her back. She has kept the scar. "You run a very capable order." She stands when Meredith indicates their conversation is finished.

They walk out together, the helmeted Templars turning their heads towards her, nodding at them both. Hawke wishes she could see their eyes but their faces are shadows. For all she knows they are empty suits. But no. She has seen them bleed.

Hawke spots Merrill immediately after Meredith does. She follows the Knight-Commander as Merrill turns away from one of the charms merchants. Merrill sees her first and lifts a hand. It freezes in places when she notices the Knight-Commander, tall and regal, a hand suggestively on the hilt of her sword.

"A Dalish elf in the Gallows," Meredith says looking Merrill over with the hint of a sneer on her lips. Meredith turns to Hawke. "Is this another apostate friend of yours?"

Merrill has frozen. She looks up at the Knight-Commander but says nothing, keeps her head bowed. Hawke watches her physically shrink into herself and flick her eyes nervously to Hawke. Hawke realizes that Merrill is waiting to be given away. Hawke has threatened it enough in the past, to be sure. The woman is a blood mage. If nothing else, it would solidify her standing with the Templars and show them that she is a responsible apostate—one of a kind. One that can be trusted.

But… shouldn't she have proven that already?

"This woman? Is she really Dalish if she's away from her clan?" Hawke asks looking scornfully at Merrill, a hint of a smile on her lips. "She's only a nervous elf, intimidated by the most influential person in Kirkwall. Isn't that right?" She bites her tongue, just barely stopping herself from saying Merrill's name.

Merrill looks from Hawke to Meredith and back to Hawke. Hawke keeps the faint smile on her lips. Merrill looks to Meredith, daring a look at her face before lowering her eyes again. "Yes, Knight-Commander."

"But why fear me? The Templar Order only serves to keep Kirkwall safe from mages that would hurt the innocent folk of the city. You fear me and not the known apostate at your side?" Meredith asks.

Merrill is frozen again. Hawke steps in. "You hurt me, Knight-Commander." Hawke feels the pit of ice in her stomach grow colder, despite keeping her tone playful. All of this still? Why make her Champion, why throw her a banquet celebration if she is still suspect? Would she throw her in the Circle with the others? Have her sacrifices not meant a damned thing? They never mean anything. "I thought I had proven myself to you."

Meredith grits her jaw. "You have."

"Well then," Hawke says lightly, "perhaps she's intimidated by that rather large sword of yours? In any case, we do not wish to take up any more of your time. We know the importance of your duty." She bows to her. "Please know that I am ready to assist the Order in any difficulties you may have, on your word."

"The Templar Order appreciates your aid, Champion," Meredith tells her appreciatively. Her eyes remain icy and suspicious. "It was a pleasure to see you, as always." She looks long and hard at Merrill before nodding and moving on her way.

Hawke grasps Merrill's elbow gingerly and leads her out of the Gallows.

xxx

The wedding preparations are well underway. The city-guardsmen are, for once, out of their metal suits and seem the better for it. Waiters are running through Viscount's Keep getting everything into place. The affair, is frankly, larger than Hawke anticipated.

Everyone in Kirkwall knows who and what she is. But the people in attendance for Aveline's wedding are friends and acquaintances, they are people who have come to know her, love her and respect her. Hawke wonders what it must be like to earn respect through something other than intimidation and violence, to have earned it through integrity and character. To be somebody for more reasons than having been given a meaningless title.

Aveline is fussing in the Captain's office, as meticulous as she is in the planning of the wedding as she has been with patrols and training. She wears a wreath of daisies in her hair. Her hair is fiery and loose over her shoulders. Hawke is unaccustomed to seeing her look so… different. Hawke has dressed in finery but has worn no dress. Standing next to Aveline this way she feels boyish and underdressed for the occasion.

"Look at you, in a dress and everything." Hawke teases gently. "With flowers in your hair."

"Shut up. I don't need any of your lip now." She stalks the room pacing. Hawke bites back her laughter. "I feel self-conscious enough as it is." She touches a freckled hand to her hair, to the wreath. "The flowers were a gift from Merrill. Hawke, tell me the truth. Do I look like—well… like a guard captain trying to masquerade as a noble woman?" She sighs. "My father never taught me any of this. I wish he could be here to give me away."

"I'm sure where ever he is—he's happy for you." Hawke takes Aveline's hand and turns her once. "You look lovely."

Aveline blushes. "I can't believe this is happening. And to think, that I owe it all to you and…" She averts her eyes. Hawke drops her hand and goes to the window to look out. It's a beautiful day, at least. Aveline deserves that. "Have you ever wanted to marry?"

"My kind don't get many opportunities." She looks over at the chantry and the people of Kirkwall streaming into it. Hawke wonders if Aveline chose to marry in the Viscount's Keep for her particular lack of faith in the chantry or not wanting to think of Wesley. She won't ask. Not today. "Especially in Kirkwall. Anyway, it usually requires two willing parties."

"I see." Aveline says solemnly.

"It's almost time, isn't it? Nervous?"

"Petrified. When this happened before… it was a much smaller affair. Hawke… if I may—I have a request."

"And it occurs to me that I forgot to get you a wedding gift." What's the matter with her? How did she forget? All of today she has been in a daze. "Your timing is impeccable. Would three or four sheep do?" She smiles and isn't able to dodge Aveline's swat.

"Must you tease me today?" She draws breath. "Today is my day with Donnic. As you know… you have a knack for drawing attention to yourself." Hawke crosses her arms gently and waits. "It's only that…"

"…You want me to go?"

"No!" Aveline shakes her head viciously. "Hawke, I want you to stay. You're family."  _There are other people who care about you… like… Aveline._ Hawke shakes Isabela's words. She's been gone two years. "But no offense—I don't want this day to be about you."

"Don't worry. I'll keep out of the way. You don't honestly think I like the attention, do you?"

"I keep waiting for the Champion title and the arse kissing nobles to go to your head."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you."

"You never have." Aveline says. Hawke's chest tightens. Aveline says the words casually, earnestly, unaware of the effect they have on Hawke. "Anyway, there is one more thing. Merrill was here, not so long ago. She left to go 'exploring' and promised she'd be back soon. That was over an hour ago. The last thing I need is to create a scandal with a loose, Dalish elf on my wedding day in the Viscount's Keep."

"I don't want to spend your wedding day hunting her down."

"Hawke—do it as a favor to me. Anyway—isn't your reputation staked on hunting others down? Just because your Champion now doesn't mean you get to take a break from it. And really, how often do I ask favors of you?"

"Weekly."

"It's my wedding day."

Hawke laughs. "Very well. I'll find her before—Maker. I just hope to find her."

"Thank you." Aveline says. She's at the door when Aveline calls her name out. "What do you think Leandra would say if she were here today?"

Hawke considers. "To you? That she's happy and proud. To me? 'How has Aveline married twice and you haven't managed the once?'" Maybe she shouldn't have said it, true as the words may be.

Aveline is silent a long time and then she laughs. "Well, you shouldn't have cut off your hair."

Hawke shakes her head and begins the hunt for Merrill.

xxx

"What are you doing up here?"

Merrill nearly jumps out of her skin. Oh, she knew that leaving the door to the office had been a mistake. She isn't sure  _whose_  office she's in—she thinks it used to belong to the Viscount but she isn't sure. All the rooms look alike to her here, all old and rich with well-greased doors that turn without a sound. "Hawke—you scared me."

"I asked a question."

Merrill looks back, shutting the book that she had set on what is possibly the Viscount's desk. It's a history of Kirkwall—very boring and missing many of the juicy details that really make any of Kirkwall's history worthwhile.

Downstairs, far in the distance, Merrill can hear the musicians playing. Aveline must be so happy. "I'm exploring mostly. I've always wanted to go everywhere here but Aveline always chases me away as if I were a pigeon or a mouse. There are so many people in attendance today. And I've never seen Aveline smile that way. Donnic looks like he's over the moon. Everybody knows everybody."

"You've never been to a wedding before?"

"I have, but not with shemlens. Not in years, actually. Usually when you come to these things…" she lifts the fabric of her vestments. "I can't tell if everyone here is dressed as they normally do or if they're wearing something better. I'm not used to the customs yet. You're not wearing a dress. Oh, I don't know. Should I have worn something else?"

"Honestly… I don't think anyone's paying attention to you."

"That's good. I think?" She releases a soft sigh. She ambles through the room, moving to a bookshelf, touching the spines of the books. "I thought once I came to Kirkwall I would… branch out, maybe? Meet people. I know you and Aveline, of course… and Varric watches over me… but we don't really talk. Not like equals. I'm someone that needs caring, in his eyes. Aveline likes me but she thinks I'm something of a pest. With Isabela gone… Anyway. It makes me miss my clan."

"You can go back to them."

"I can't. You know I can't, Hawke. Please. I don't want to fight today." They haven't been fighting recently. Mostly, they haven't talked. They've been grudgingly polite. Hawke didn't turn her over to Meredith. And she brought Merrill Isabela's friend-fiction with little ceremony before leaving.

"I'm only saying that you don't have to be alone."

"You say it as if… we can choose a thing like that." Merrill says. Hawke looks away, turning her head towards the door as if to listen. The music is growing louder. Merrill wonders if the ceremony is beginning. "I haven't even made friends in the alienage," she says quietly.

Hawke leans into the wall beside the door. "You know… I thought that once everybody knew I was an apostate all of these feelings would go away. At least when I was in hiding I could tell myself that things would be different, somehow, if people thought better of me."

Thought better of her? Merrill isn't sure what she means. Haven't people always thought better of Hawke? Better than what she is? It takes Merrill moments to realize she must refer to being an apostate. "And now?"

"And now I realize I was wrong. None of it matters. I have my so-called freedom and I'm more alone than ever." Her eyes half-close. She peers through the small crack in the door to the outside. "Are women allowed to marry other women amongst the Dalish?"

Merrill wonders if she's thinking about Isabela. "It isn't common. And when it happens it's usually frowned upon."

"That's daft."

"It isn't a judgment on the coupling itself. It's only that there are so few Dalish remaining. I don't really think of it. I'm not waiting for anyone... Not like that. And if I were… I'm so..." her face heats. She doesn't know what it is about this day that makes her talk more so than usual. Maybe she only says these things out loud because whenever else can she say them? What other occasion will prompt them? "The only man to care for me even a little was Carver. I still miss him. The way he laughed and got angry at all the little things." He had taken her out on a date. He had taken her out on two but he had never kissed her. Merrill realizes, numbly, the many years that have passed since she's been kissed. She was alone before she left her clan. Mahariel never looked at her in the way she wished. "But you must miss him, too. I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"Sounding selfish. Being selfish." She thinks of the Eluvian, she thinks of her people, she thinks of calling forth the demon. "I can be so thoughtless."

"Yes. But so can I." There's a moment. "I hadn't known you cared about him." The music downstairs is growing louder still. Merrill hears clapping. Hawke's eyes drift to that outside world. "He liked you."

"Really?"

"Yes."

The news makes her heart flutter all these years later. Hawke's eyes drift to her. They're paler than Carver's were. They're the color of rain or a frozen lake. Merrill walks to the door. She looks out the angle to the bright colors, shapes of carpet and banisters and chandeliers, triangles of people. Everything is distorted. There is cheering and trumpets, clapping, music swelling. It's intrusive and makes them sad. It makes sense to push the door closed.

Hawke touches Merrill's face. Merrill should wince but the dizzying action of it makes her forget. Strange how the touching of their lips, the thing that takes her breath away is the very thing that makes her take breath. What happens first is tentative and soft, a kiss, a condolence for their miserable, sad, pathetic lives.

Because they are pathetic and sad and miserable.

Because they are missing Aveline's wedding and kissing in what may be the Viscount's office.

And initially all Merrill can taste in the kiss is despair and longing for something better. What are they looking for in one another? Something to hope for? Something to hold on to? They hate each other. Haven't they always hated each other?

Merrill isn't sure when the shift occurs, when what is unsure and depressing becomes sure and carnal. Maybe it's when they remember they're enemies or when they remember that they have little reason to be and the only reason they had for being is no longer there anymore.

Merrill's twines her arms around Hawke's neck, dragging her down in a hungry kiss, fingers running through the shorter hair, still finding plenty to hold to as Hawke kisses her harder. Whatever was on the desk isn't anymore. There's a crashing of items. Merrill's back hits the desk hard. She looks up at Hawke's eyes, burning bright, burning with desire. Is this what Isabela saw?

Merrill waits for guilt. It doesn't come. She pulls at Hawke's clothes. Hawke yanks at hers. Hawke touches her as if she owns her. Merrill touches Hawke as if her body is hers to do what she will with it. Merrill wraps her legs around Hawke's hips. Hawke takes everything that is cold in her, into her mouth, turning her body to embers. She burns. But hadn't Hawke always been cold, so cold?

Inside she's fire. Merrill slides her fingers into her at the same time that Hawke cups her. They gasp and watch and breathe, grunt, moan, pitching against one another, breathless.

How long is it? Merrill doesn't know. She just knows it ends with her straddling Hawke, a fistful of her hair, pulling her neck back, kissing there. She isn't sure which one of them is pleading because they've both begged and served, submitted to one another. They are covered in scratches, voices hoarse. They have energy to spare.

Merrill hadn't known she could make Hawke into this.

Hadn't known Hawke could make her into this.

Is this what rutting is? Fucking? Hawke's eyes rove over her. Aveline's getting married. Aveline got married. And here they are sweaty and mostly naked on a desk. Merrill lets Hawke guide her back, hands gripping her ribcage as she presses kisses to her stomach, her breasts. Merrill's balance is precarious but for the first time in years she knows that Hawke won't let her fall. Her breath quickens again.

The arch window spills blinding sunlight into the room, taking what is broken and making it beautiful, making them beautiful, somehow.

Somewhere there are bells ringing.

xxx

It's been raining all day. The fat, heavy drops of rain fall on Merrill's roof, burrowing their way into the home, making it cold and uncomfortable. Hawke doesn't understand how she can live in it. She takes the cups and pots that Merrill offers her and walks around the home, catching the rain that she can.

It's still cold. Merrill sits on a bearskin on the floor in front of the fire shivering, rubbing her arms. Hawke sits beside her when she has finished setting down all the kitchenware and buckets she can find.

Hawke thinks of Aveline's wedding and how in the Viscount's office, with the setting sun, they had helped each other dress, glances shy, fingers carefully tracing the scratches, the newly formed bruises. They had kissed then too, trembling.

"Why do you do the things that you do?" Merrill asks. Hawke shakes away the memory. "I've never been able to understand."

Hawke doesn't either. It's been weeks since Aveline married. Both Hawke and Merrill missed the ceremony. Whether others noticed their absence or simply haven't cared to ask is unknown. She and Merrill haven't talked about it. "Years ago when they threw that ridiculous celebration for me, I saw Knight-Captain Cullen. We talked. He smiled and said he felt uneasy around me."

Merrill pulls her legs closer to herself, wrapping her arms around her knees. "Hawke. What happened. What I did. I've never done that before. Taken somebody's mind. It's wrong. I know that. But…in that moment… I still think that it was… right. I just want you to know that. No matter what I do… you always think I'm stupid or … thoughtless or. I just wish that you knew I can be more."

Hawke looks at her profile. Merrill looks determined and grown. And sad. They don't talk about Isabela but Hawke knows how Merrill must miss her. Isabela was always her greatest defender, her closest friend. Merrill turns to her, jade eyes curious and dark, shards of emerald giving her a sliver of childlike wonder. "I know you can be more. But you insist on being stupid. Why do you think I give you such a hard time?"

"Because…you hate me?"

"Don't mistake me. You're a blood mage. I will never agree with the path you've chosen for yourself. I can't. I won't." She shakes her head gently. Merrill returns her attention to the fire. "But I don't hate you. In your own stupid way—you have cared for me in the past. And you've cared for others."

"Oh, in my own stupid way." Merrill says frowning. "I'll try to be less stupid when I help you in the future."

Hawke fails to notice the edge in her words. "That would be wise." She listens to the tapping of the water in the various containers throughout the household. The home is colder yet. It's dark outside. It's dark inside. Does Merrill have much more than she does? Would Hawke turn to dark magic to return her family to her if she could? To help her family? No. No. She couldn't. She wouldn't. But she can almost understand it. Merrill isn't horrible. Merrill is misguided.

They're silent a long time. Hawke thinks of Isabela. Wasn't she always out of reach? Yes. And Hawke knew it. In a way she had always known it and kept her heart closed to her. She knew the risk. She knew it and had wisely maintained a degree of distance, knowing that if it wasn't maintained she would be lost. She would be destroyed.

And still… She had loved her so much.

_I once knew a sailor like you. We lost him in a hurricane. Very sad._

She sighs. Merrill watches her curiously. Merrill watches her always as if she were ready for her to attack. Is she, as Fenris once said, a viper in a nest? Ready to strike. Everyone thinks they know her. The Knight-Commander, Fenris, Merrill, Anders. Do they know her? Is she a viper? Does Kirkwall know her? Do Varric and Aveline? Is she a champion? She doesn't want to give either group the satisfaction.

She won't be cornered. She wants to decide for herself what she is.

"Why have you been… the way that you've been with me?" Merrill asks. Hawke looks at her. "I thought… we were enemies. Isabela always liked you so." Hawke scowls. "And Varric and Aveline… Not Fenris or Anders as much but… I always wanted to understand, wanted to see it. But I never did. I haven't until… until recently. Are we still… do we have to keep fighting?"

"Friends don't always agree. Sometimes they fight." Hawke's gaze is unwavering, despite the surprise that touches Merrill's features. "And maybe we will never agree." Raindrops fall on Merrill's arm, along her cheek. Hawke wipes the water away. "But… if you tell me what you need… I'll do what I can."

Isn't that what she has always wanted for her friends? For her family? Not that she has family. Not anymore. Aveline. Maybe her. But when was the last time she spoke to her? She has Donnic and the Guard. Varric has carta business and his growing obsession with his brother and whomever Bartrand sold that lyrium piece to.

A friendship with Merrill. She never thought she'd see the day. Is this out of necessity? Out of desperation and loneliness? They don't understand one another—but they understand one another.

Merrill laughs shakily before bowing her head with a smile. "I can't do that." Hawke looks at her. "Any time I have ever asked you for anything you have denied me. Do you know how you've hurt and betrayed me before?"

"We were nothing then. What does it matter?" Hawke doesn't see why Merrill has to be unreasonable and sensitive about everything. "My stance on blood magic and loose apostates has always been clear."

"Sometimes you're no better than any thug or criminal. Often times you aren't. Because you of all people should know better."

The words don't hurt her. Hawke isn't sure that she disagrees. She stares at the fireplace. They're quiet for a long time.

Then Merrill leans over and whispers a request into her ear. Merrill's breath and cheeks are warm. Her words are warmer. Hawke slowly turns to look at her, amazed that the woman who can cut her arms to ribbons and draw blood at will is incapable of saying something so simple aloud.

Merrill's hand covers Hawke's heart, a blindfold of sort: a guard. Merrill captures her lips the same as Hawke captured her own so many weeks ago, tentative and soft.

xxx

Kirkwall has fallen into stillness. The skies are a barely there blue, more gray and white than anything else. The summer is dry. There is little rain. The sea has calmed. The Qunari are long gone. There is little evidence they were ever there.

Hawke goes to the docks to watch the ships arrive, merchants and smugglers distributing and thieving wares. She doesn't get involved. She cares not for the 'morality' that is judged by the city-guard. Morality, ethics are so much more than a debate about 'things'.

Aveline will never understand that. Just as Hawke never understood that the battle between Templars and mages is so much more than good versus evil.

The winds have changed.

The wind is stopped.

Sails don't rustle. Even seagulls don't fly. They remain grounded only to flap away to the ocean when Hawke goes near.

The pale and yellow sun hurts her eyes. She lowers them and stops looking.

Everything at last is at a calm.

xxx

The cloak is sitting on the middle of her bed, wrapped like a gift in twine.

The air goes out of Hawke. She wonders if it's a trick of the eye, of the imagination, or if it's only a dream.

It's far enough on the bed that she has to climb onto the bed to reach it. She does, stupefied. Her fingers touch the fabric. It feels the same.

Who brought it here? When did it get here? She picks up the bundle and turns it, looking for a letter, looking for a note. There isn't one.

She drops it and stares. Then picks it up and pulls at the twine, rips at it until she has ruined its careful balance. The cloak bulges awkwardly at one side in its containment. Hawke grabs firm hold of the twine and yanks at the material, grunting, struggling, cutting her hand in the process, drawing blood but not giving up. She's breathing hard when she finally frees it, nearly falling off the bed in the process.

The cloak covers her like a lover. She casts it aside, jumping off the bed, yanking it towards her, lifting it. She wants to see it. She wants to feel it.

It's the same cloak. No question. The one Isabela gave her. The one she last wore when she battled the Arishok. The one that Isabela found and took. Hawke freezes. She shakes. Her mouth is dry.

She explores it.

It smells of the sea.

It's riddled with holes. It's damaged and practically useless. Hawke scrambles again, looking for a letter, for a note. She shouts for Sandal and for Bodahn but neither man comes. Her shouts become screams of frustration.

She kicks the chair beside the desk. It splinters into pieces. She flings a vase but no amount of violence can still her heart and the pounding blood in her ears and the rage and loss.

Two and a half years later she returns this? With no notice? With no indication…

Hawke stumbles, still clutching the cloak in hand. She falls back on the bed, unable to catch her breath, air spiking brutally in and out of her lungs over and over again with no reprieve. She tastes blood in her mouth but can't calm her breath, calm her heart. It ravages her.

She attempts to fling the cloak away but is tangled in it, the most she can manage is to get it away from her fingertips and still the infernal thing remains draped over her. She's ensnared in a simple cloak.

Hawke brings her hands to her face and cries.


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: I keep doing this. Thanks for the reminder, Opa!

xxx

 

Winter arrives.

It is milder than Merrill is accustomed to. Cold air stabs through the cracks in the walls, making her alienage home unbearably cold at night. Some nights she sleeps curled into herself in front of the fireplace. Other nights, she sleeps with Hawke. Merrill knows Hawke has others. She also knows her place is above them. They're friends. They've become friends. They talk but never when they make love. That's always slow and intense, their eyes rarely leaving one another's.

They miss her.

They never discuss what brought them together. They never talk about her. Sometimes Hawke stays over. Other nights, she'll leave, restless. When she stays she will sometimes dress immediately. When she doesn't, they'll remain in her small, cramped bed and enjoy each other again. Hawke's only consistency is inconsistency.

Tonight, Merrill scratches designs along Hawke's back, marking her as if with Vallaslin, with her short fingernails. How strange to do this now for the woman she once despised. Hawke catches her fingers. Merrill smiles, caught, and drops her hand to their side. "You're thinking about something." Merrill says. She's been quieter than usual lately. "Have you fallen in love with some Hightown noble that wants you all to themselves?"

Hawke smiles wryly. "Hardly."

Merrill strokes her back absently. "So what is it?"

"She sent the cloak back."

"She… what cloak?" Merrill hasn't the foggiest— a look at Hawke's face clears up her confusion. "Oh." Oh. Oh, Creators. "What—but why? What does it mean? Did she say anything?"

"No."

"Is she coming back?" She brightens, and takes Hawke's arm. "Maybe she's coming back." Hawke's face darkens. "Isn't that what you want? Isn't that what we've wanted? I still want it." Hawke rips her arm away. "If she sent it back after all this time… she must have held on to it. She must still think of you. Maybe she'll be here soon."

"She sent it months ago. With no word. With no return. You know what it means. It's done."

Merrill isn't sure. She could argue with her but what good would it do? She kneels on the bed and drapes her arms along Hawke's shoulders, pulling close to her. "You really don't want to see her again?" Merrill will never believe that Hawke could stop loving Isabela, could ever forget her. Hawke has been more distant than ever lately. Now she knows why. "I would love to see her. She always had a way of … of making things better." She trails her hand along Hawke's stomach. "She made you happy."

Hawke covers her face with her hand. "You idiot."

xxx

Isabela steps off the ship, arriving with summer.

Ah, Kirkwall. It still smells of piss and rotting fish. There are fishermen she recognizes by face alone, throwing nets into the water. Some of the warehouses she spent time in before have been boarded up. Other buildings bear scars of the past and the Qunari rebellion, their corners still blackened by fire.

It's strange to be in Kirkwall again. In some ways it feels as if she never left. Many people still linger in the areas she remembers. They do double takes and lift their arms tentatively as if unsure whether to trust her presence. If only they knew.

Maybe they know.

Three years have passed. Things get out. She spent three years rigorously drinking, fucking, fighting, sailing, stealing, living, trying to forget. Three years of debauchery in attempts to reinvent herself or regress to what she'd been before Hawke twisted her every which way.

Hawke…

Isabela can't see her, doesn't know how to see her, how to face her. Can Hawke forgive her? Is she willing to? Isabela lacks the courage to ask. She doesn't deserve forgiveness.

She was gone half as long as Hawke knew her. What memories does Hawke have of her? The betrayals she was forced to endure? Her unparalleled selfishness?

Isabela tries to shake her off but fails. For three years she has failed. Rigorous drinking, fucking, fighting, sailing, stealing, living, trying to forget, have done nothing to take Isabela's memory of her.

Returning to Kirkwall is surrender. Returning to Kirkwall is an admission.

xxx

Merrill claps her hands over her mouth in disbelief. Happy tears spring to her eyes. Isabela…! At her door…! "Is this real?" Merrill asks. "Are you real?" she touches her arm. "Ah! You are real! Isabela! I've missed you so much!" Merrill flings her arms around her. Isabela  _is_  real. Isabela  _is_  here. And Merrill's nearly tackled her to the floor.

Isabela chuckles softly, returning the hug. "You didn't think I could keep away from you forever, did you?" she pulls back to look at her. "Oh, you've hardly aged. Damn elves." Isabela smiles, wiping the tears from Merrill's face. "Dry your eyes, Kitten. I'm not worth your happy tears."

Merrill can't stop smiling. Maybe she should be angry. Isabela's letters were far and few in between but she's back now and that's all that matters. Merrill knew she would return… in her own time, in her own way. "I really can't believe it," she says in a daze, following Isabela and sitting beside her on the bench beside the table. Merrill takes her hands. "I just want to look at your face. Please tell me you're staying."

"For the time being…"

"Oh, that's good!" she laughs and brushes the tears from her cheeks. "Look at me, falling apart. When you first left I thought how wonderful it would be if you returned and I was tough and… serious and…"

"You can be both of those things. But that's not why I like you. I like you just the way you are." She clasps Merrill's chin gently to look at her and then releases her. Her eyes fall to the red sash on the table. Merrill notices it too late. Hawke has left it. Does Isabela recognize it…? Merrill's hand lashes out, clutching the ends. "That's pretty." Isabela says. She looks at it a long time and smiles back at her.

"You know how I get… leaving things everywhere." Merrill releases the sash. "Does Hawke know you're back?"

Isabela stands, fingers coming to her earring absently. "Not exactly. I'll see her when I see her. She's the Champion of Kirkwall now. I imagine she's…busy." She walks around the home pensively before sitting again. "Have you seen her? I'm happy you're still alive. Without my good influence I was afraid she'd finally make good on her threats and cut you down."

Merrill grimaces. She wants to ask Isabela about the cloak. She wants to tell her everything. Is it her thing to tell? Would Hawke be angry? Since when does she care if she makes Hawke angry…? Anyway, Isabela's back now so it can stop. They'll both have what they want. "What did you do while you were away?"

"The usual," Isabela says flippantly. "Didn't you read my letters?" she asks. "Why does it matter?" She says the last in a gruff undertone.

"It's just that—you were gone for so long…" Merrill looks down at her hands. "Sorry, I didn't mean…" Why had she slept with Hawke if she knew Isabela would be back? Because she abandoned them both? She can't be angry at Isabela for choosing her life. But does she get to walk back into their lives as if nothing happened? How often did Isabela ask her about her life? Even now she hasn't asked. Merrill tells herself that Isabela has just returned.

"Forget it, Kitten." Isabela lifts Merrill's chin and presses a soft kiss to her forehead. "I don't mean to be surly. I need a stiff drink and a good lay and I'll be back to normal." Merrill wonders if she means either of those things. "In the meantime… forgive me?"

Merrill smiles up at her. "Yes. Yes, of course." She can't stay angry at Isabela no matter how she may try. Three years. Is this how Isabela usually behaves? She doesn't know anymore. Time and distance has distorted her perceptions. "Will you go see Hawke?"

Isabela has her back to her. She stretches her arms over her head. "There's no rush. I'll get around to it. Eventually. In the meantime I need to catch up with dear old Varric. And visit the Blooming Rose and pay my old girls a visit… You know, the usual."

"Isabela—"

"Later, Merrill." She leaves without looking back.

xxx

Isabela finds her room is mostly the same. The hats are where she left them. There is a thick layer of dust on everything—though not as much as she would imagine would accumulate in all the time she's been gone. She's surprised Corff kept the room for her. She'd never intended returning.

Isabela opens the drawers. Her clothing is neatly folded within. It isn't how she'd left it. There's a sack of items to the side of the table and she stoops, looking through it. Some books. No friend-fiction. No ship in a bottle.

She narrows her eyes thoughtfully. She's sure she left it. She knows it because she often regretted leaving it. Such a stupid little thing. Who wants a ship in a bottle? She wants a real damned ship. And here it is nine years later and she remains without one. The small gift would have been a consolation.

Isabela stands and paces the small quarters. It's a shitty, cramped little room but Hawke had been happy to spend time with her in it. Does Hawke come to Lowtown anymore? She hasn't been in the Hanged Man. She doubts she's even been to Lowtown but oh, how her mark is ,everywhere.

They've erected a blighted statue to her in the docks. Others have plastered portraits of her on building walls. Everybody talks about her as if she were bloody Andraste herself. Isabela sits on the bed and pulls her bandana off. It was stupid to return.

xxx

"I've been doing some research and I found a book about that blasted mirror of yours." Hawke says. Merrill smiles grimly. Hawke always calls it 'that blasted mirror of yours'. Hawke goes to her with the thick, ominous looking text and hands it to her. "I know how stubborn you are and since you've no intention of giving it up you could at least look through this. It might help. Better yet, none of your nasty blood magic habits would be brought into the mix." Hawke grabs her arm, fingers delicately sliding downward before releasing her. "You've too many scars as is."

Merrill's cheeks rosy. She isn't sure if it's because this is the first time that Hawke has mentioned her scars, despite their many couplings, or the soft and caring way that she speaks of them. "Thank you, Hawke. I'll—I'll look through this." She carries the book to the desk and sets it down. She brings a hand to her ear nervously. "I don't know how to say this. I suppose it should be simple enough. It was never… we were never…" she bites her tongue. This shouldn't be hard but it is. They're friends. It's for that reason that Merrill is most grateful to her but she can't deny that she has missed having a lover. Hawke treats her as if she were special. "We should stop."

Hawke looks at her curiously. "Stop?"

"What's happening with us. What we do." Merrill can't meet her eyes. Her face is hot. She's used to disappointing Hawke. She hasn't in a long time and doesn't want to go back to those days. This is something outside of their fundamental differences on blood magic.

"Why?" Hawke sounds confused, looks perplexed. Merrill isn't used to her sounding unsure. "Have I done something?" Merrill shakes her head. Hawke thinks. "Because of her…?" Merrill nods and finally looks at her. Does Hawke know Isabela's back? No. There's no way that she knows. Can she? Isabela said she'd track her down but whenever Merrill asks, she's evasive. "Who cares?"

"I care." Merrill says. Hawke's irritation is evident. "There are… other people. So let's not do this anymore. You have those Hightown noble girls. They're so beautiful and sophisticated. What do you get from me that you can't from them?"

Hawke parts her lips but nothing comes out. She allows a moment, her fingertips grazing the cover of the book she gave her. Suddenly, Merrill desperately wants to hear whatever it is she was going to say. She bites her tongue to keep from asking. "Is this what you want?"

Merrill is conflicted. If it weren't for Isabela… Maybe… no. No, it would never work. No matter how angry Hawke may be, how much Isabela may have screwed up, this is what's right for the both of them. This is what they deserve. There will always be Isabela. If not for Hawke then for her. "Yes. It's what I want."

Hawke takes a breath. "All right." She says it again, resigned before picking up the heavy text and giving it to her again. "Well then… thank you. And good luck."

The book is heavy as stone in her arms. She takes a few steps to the exit and stops. "Hawke. Will things go back to the way they were before?" Her throat is dry. "I don't want that."

Hawke keeps her back to her. People keep doing that. Hiding in plain sight. "What you did for me cannot be repaid." A silence lingers for so long that Merrill thinks Hawke has finished talking. "As such, I am here for you whenever you need."

Merrill's legs go unsteady. She wobbles but finds her standing by the doorway. "Will you need time…? Before I see you again?" She'll need time to break old habits. It has become second nature to kiss her, touch her, be familiar.

"I'd like that, Merrill." Still with her back to her, now with her head sunk lower. Her fingertips curl at her forehead as if warding a headache.

"Hawke…" she waits for what seems like a long time before Hawke turns to look at her. "Isabela's back. She's been back for weeks. She's at the Hanged Man."

Merrill hadn't expected her to jump to her feet and cheer. Had she expected a smile? Is the room colder? Much colder? Merrill doesn't know if it's only her imagination. Hawke's eyes slowly frost, growing colder and paler than she's ever seen. For a moment, Merrill doubts everything: that Hawke loves Isabela, that Isabela should have returned, that Isabela will be safe.

xxx

"I can't say I don't find all this dancing of yours endearing, Rivaini. I didn't know you had it in you to be bashful!"

Isabela regrets talking to Varric. She rubs her earring in irritation and has another drink of beer. The quality hasn't improved. Why the void did she come back to Kirkwall? To talk to a smart assed dwarf and an elf who constantly trips over her words? Did she romanticize everything? And here she hadn't thought she had a romantic bone in her body. "Oh, Varric. Don't misunderstand me. You know I'm always in the mood for a party and nobles do all their best partying behind closed doors, if you catch my drift." She chuckles. "Did I tell you? I spent some time in Orlais—there was this husband and wife couple that were absolutely delicious. You won't believe where they'll put and drink wine out of." She laughs again.

"Same old Rivaini. Maybe you never change after all. And here I thought you were genuinely curious about the kid." He smirks and throws his cards down. "What's it like being back in Kirkwall?"

Isabela wishes he'd continued making presumptions and told her about Hawke. Everybody makes jokes about her taking off, leaving Hawke to pick up the mess but never telling her how Hawke is. It's…frustrating. "Kirkwall is the same shitty city it has always been. Maybe it's grand to small town girls who've never seen much of the world but I remain unimpressed." She lifts her now empty glass of beer. "And the drink still tastes like piss."

"To match the smell of the city!" Varric says cheerfully, refilling her glass. "I tell you, the Hanged Man wasn't the same without you. Eventually everyone stopped gathering here. It became a place to tell stories about how Hawke  _used_  to frequent."

"Would a certain dwarf have been the main conspirator in telling these stories?"

"Heh, I won't confirm or deny. But maybe. Someone had to take up the slack when you weren't around to bullshit." Varric pours himself another pint. He drinks, makes a face and fills it again. "Sure did miss you around here. Daisy was beside herself. And Fenris missed you at card games—he's actually made some coin since you left, though. Are all elves piss poor at cards?" He's asked this before.

"I prefer to think that you and I are exceptional."

"I'm exceptional—you cheat."

Isabela laughs. "At least you never catch me when I do." She smiles and runs a hand through her hair. "What about Aveline? Haven't caught sight of her sour face since returning."

"Married! In the Viscount's Keep, no less. Big turnout. Kirkwall has a higher opinion of her than we do. She's still a tight ass, in case you were wondering."

"That's disappointing. Can't say I'm surprised. Aveline wouldn't be Aveline if she wasn't being a pain in our ass." She sighs. "I caught up with Anders earlier. He broods more than Fenris does. A waste of a good looking man."

"Didn't think you minded brooding, Rivaini. I'd go so far as to say that 'brooding' is your type."

"It just goes to show how little you know about me. I want someone who knows how to have fun. Not anyone who gets bogged down in others problems. Do gooders! Leave me out of it."

Varric smiles as if that problem has already been taken care of. "Seriously, though. When are you going to catch up with her? You've been here near a month already."

"So? I didn't come back here for her." She rubs her earring distractedly. She sighs. "You're such a bother. I think I've had enough rat's droppings in my beer tonight." She lifts the glass to him and stands. "I need to go for a walk. Try not to have too much fun without me."

"I guess it'll be just me and Bianca tonight."

"Try not to be too much of a lecher with her," Isabela says with a grin, "I'll get jealous." She steps out into the swarthy night. She hasn't had enough to drink. There are people out shouting and laughing. Kirkwall hasn't changed but she feels disconnected. She considers seeing Merrill and asking about Aveline's wedding. Merrill would tell it better than Aveline would and without so many instances of the word 'whore'.

She would have loved to see Aveline in a dress. Was her hair loose or did she wear pigtails? Isabela laughs thinking of it. She thinks of her own 'marriage' and sobers. It's hard to think of the worst of it. Was it how indecently young she was? The way the bastard never gave her any satisfaction? Or how he passed her along to his friends to see if they could do the job?

Ah, that was a long time ago and he's dead now so it doesn't matter. She's her own person. She'll never be anyone else's.

She wanders aimlessly. There is nothing she seeks, though it doesn't immediately occur to her that this is different from the norm. Usually there's a goal in mind, the goal leading to pleasure and delightful antics. Somehow she makes it to Hightown. She hates Hightown. She's paid a visit to the Rose and met up with a few of her girls but the town lacks anything that interests her.

With the vendors gone for the day there's no venue for shopping. The nobles are out now, daring, heading to soirees, their noses up in the air. Isabela considers spending some of her precious coin in a fine restaurant, really scandalize them and hit them where it hurts but she decides against it.

From the corner of her eye she catches movement and intrigued (or perhaps overly bored) goes closer. The nearer she gets the clearer it becomes there are two nobles indulging in one another. She didn't think they had the gall to do so outside and beneath the stars. Pressed against the pillar to some mansion where lights burn brightly. There's a party in full swing.

Isabela thinks of Hawke. Does she still go to parties?

A small shout, breaking into laughter shakes her from her thoughts. The one who shouted is murmuring something. She says something about 'apostate' and she says the word 'Champion'. Are they talking about Hawke? Silly girl.

A strikingly beautiful woman with short hair lifts her head from the girl's neck, trailing a finger along the noble girl's lips. Whoever the girl is, she's some blushing virgin. She can scarcely meet the other woman's eyes. Her pretty, pert breasts heave in anticipation.

"Your father will wonder where you are," the woman says, her voice familiar but unfamiliar, teasing and warm, "and Champion or no he will wring my bloody neck for laying so much as a finger on you."

"I don't care what he thinks," she whispers as if she were confessing a dark secret. "I want—I want you. I've wanted you for years now."

Hawke laughs. "You wicked little thing. Well, I  _am_  a guest. It'd be rude to refuse a host her favor."

How is that woman Hawke? That isn't Hawke. Hawke…doesn't talk like that. Hawke has long hair.

And Hawke always said she would never stray. Isabela believed her. It…doesn't feel right to see her like this, with whatever young thing that is she has pressed against the pillar. It never occurred to her that Hawke could be with anybody else. Isabela knows she should leave but can't move. The girl is laughing at whatever Hawke says. Isabela notes, absently, her rich attire and jewelry, the flawless make-up and hair. The girl is younger than Isabela. The girl is nobility. The fabric of her dress goes up and Isabela hears her gasp before Hawke kisses her. Isabela's stomach turns. She doesn't recognize this feeling but it makes her violently ill.

She gets her bearings and returns to Lowtown.

xxx

In the brig again.

It's tradition at this point. Aveline greeted her warmly as she shackled her arms behind her. It isn't how she prefers to have her face thrust into the wall of the Hanged Man. Regardless, Isabela had been so happy to see the Captain of the Guard that she'd kissed her, full on the lips! Aveline returned the kiss briefly only to follow it with a fist to the face. Isabela laughed, tasting blood on her tongue.

"How long have you been back?" Aveline asked leading her to the brig.

"Near a month now."

"And no visit? I should have decked you harder," Aveline said warmly.

They spent the rest of the time catching up. Isabela telling her about the adventures she's had over Thedas and Aveline telling her about married life and Donnic. She stubbornly refused to answer questions about their sex life and seemed reluctant to leave her in the brig cell.

It's been a week. It was a mistake to come back. But catching up with Aveline, Varric and Merrill almost make it worthwhile. She sits on a patch of hay in the corner and waits. Steps approach the cell. Isabela wonders if someone has come to let her out. It'd be humiliating if it was Hawke. Hawke who kisses Hightown noblewomen.

The steps continue past her cell. It isn't Hawke. She serves the typical time for her drunken brawls and then she's released.

Does Hawke know she's returned? She considers going to the Blooming Rose. Maybe all she needs is a good fuck to return her to good spirits. In the end, she goes to her room at the Hanged Man and sleeps. Where did she put that ship in the bottle? Did someone steal it?

xxx

"So Hawke's rutting Hightown girls now."

Merrill looks up from her book. Isabela has guarded her silence for the past several minutes but now looks through her bookshelves, fingering spines, pulling other interesting texts out to look at.

"I saw her the other day with some Hightown noble. In the middle of the night." She continues to browse, fixated on books that Merrill could have sworn always bored her. "It's rather adventurous for Hawke, wouldn't you say?"

Merrill isn't sure what Isabela expects. "Hawke is… surprising." She'd been taking notes but is no longer able to concentrate.

Isabela looks thoughtful. "I always pegged her for predictable. She was always so dull. Predictable and dull. I suppose that's the same thing—or close enough," she says.

"Does it bother you? That—she sees those girls?"

"Did you know?"

"Yes."

"How? Did she tell you? Did you see her?" she sighs. "So many questions. Sorry. I can't stand how I sound right now." Isabela pulls out a copy of the friend-fiction. "I've been looking for these. Did you read through them? I did one of you and Hawke."

Merrill stills. She opens the book again and tries to remember what paragraph she left off on. Was it Eluvian history or Eluvian abilities? She can't remember. "I didn't see that one," she says only to say something. What did Isabela write? How close is it to reality?

"Where did you get these? Did you go into my room?" There's a beat. "I'm… I'm missing a few things."

"You can have it back. You can have them back."

"I'll write new ones. You keep these." She puts them back. "I just hate it when I misplace things."

"You didn't misplace anything. You left them." Merrill can't believe she's said it. If nothing else she's kept the ire from her voice. Isabela is quiet. Merrill feels guilty. "All I mean is… you can't leave things for three years… and expect them to be where you left them. Or—or pick them up as if you never left. Because—things shift. And they wander. Like underwater treasure or sand…fish." She scratches her forehead. "That's all," she finishes softly.

"There's a card game at the Hanged Man tonight," Isabela says easily. "Want to come? I'll teach you a few of my tricks—you'll win a few hands, I promise."

"I can't tonight. I'm meeting someone."

"Who?" she asks lightly.

"Hawke. If you must know." Merrill has battled abominations and pride demons with less fear than she has navigated through this conversation. "I haven't seen her in a while."

"I remember when that was a good thing. You're  _willingly_  spending time with her?" She laughs. "Has she cast some sort of blood mage spell on you? I never thought I'd see the day when you two played nicely."

"Yes, well. You were gone for a long time. Three years."

"Is that how long it was?"

"And we kept waiting and we kept waiting and you never came back. And we missed you. Creators, Isabela. We all came up with so many excuses for you. I did."

"I didn't ask you to," Isabela says defensively. She follows Merrill into the bedroom when Merrill leaves the room. "All right. You're angry. So let me have it. Let's put it out there and move on. I miss having fun with you." Merrill sits on the bed. Isabela remains by the door. "I wrote you, Merrill. I wrote you."

"Yes, you wrote me. To tell me how wonderful life was. You didn't ask about me. Not once! You didn't ask about anybody." Merrill stands, frustrated. "And now you're back here, surprised that things have changed—angry that things have changed? Angry that Hawke has Hightown girls?"

Isabela laughs. "I couldn't possibly care what—"

"Do you know that it took her months to heal from that duel she fought for you? You couldn't send one letter? For a while none of us even knew if you were alive. You make us worry and care about you and then you act as if it's all a big joke! As if we're the stupid ones! You stole a book from the Qunari and lied about it for years. Do you know what a disaster it was here? Do you know how long it took to collect the bodies? And how it smelled for months when they burned them? The skies were black with the ashes of people. Do you ever think about any of that?"

Isabela scoffs. "Self-righteous much? How much time have you and Hawke been spending together? Her bad habits are rubbing off on you."

"You know what—that's none of your business. You have no right to ask. No right."

"I thought you wanted me to ask questions."

Merrill shakes her head. "I love you, Isabela. You are the most important person to me—I would do anything for you. You have been… so kind to me that I would give up anything for you. But sometimes I think that everyone's right and you're the most selfish person I've ever met."

Isabela squares her jaw. Her eyes glisten. Her voice is hard with emotion. "You're right. You and everybody else. I am. I know what I am. Do you think it doesn't keep me up at night? Sometimes I  _hate_  what I am. I don't know how to be any other way. I can't… survive any other way. And maybe that makes me rotten but it's my life. And if I wasn't this way you can be damn sure I wouldn't even have that. I wish I were better, Merrill. I do. For you. For … others. But I'm not." She leaves.

Merrill shakes.

xxx

It isn't wrong to be in Hawke's home. But the elusive guilt of before finally presents itself. They forego the greeting of months past.

They move around each other like water currents, remaining conscious of proximity. Merrill barely contains her hysteria. She paces the foyer, her heart fluttering her chest. She goes to the stairs and sits beside Hawke.

"What's the matter?" Hawke asks. "You're…bothered about something."

"It's Isabela." Merrill sees the familiar narrowing of Hawke's eyes at the mention. "I said something terrible to her. I mean, it wasn't wrong but it hurt her. I never thought she could be hurt. She's so strong. I was just speaking from my own hurt and…" she sighs. "You need to see her."

"Why?"

"Because she wants to see you. I think she's afraid." Merrill thinks she should have gone after Isabela and apologized. No apology would have made it right. She said the words and Isabela will hold on to them like anger, like a knife. Armor can be cutting. "She came back here for you, you know."

"Is that why we've spent so much time together?"

Merrill winces inwardly. Hawke's humor can be unsettling. The angrier she is, the more glibly she'll put matters. "Hawke, she loves you."

Her words are crisp and matter-of-fact. "Isabela doesn't know how to love."

xxx

The knock comes in the middle of the night.

Isabela's eyes snap open. The knock doesn't come again. Curiosity makes Isabela stand and pad barefoot to the door. It's Hawke. This must be another dream. The night is too warm and humid. Her skin glistens. Hawke looks unaffected. Is this real? She had near half a bottle of whisky before blacking out in her room.

Isabela's footing is unstable. She hasn't sobered yet. This is only the second time seeing Hawke since returning to Kirkwall. The first instance was from afar. Isabela dared hope it was a mirage. How stupid. Her hair is cut. How would she react if this was the first time seeing her? Isabela is grateful to know about the other women.

She's unsure of who is at a disadvantage.

Hawke scans the room before her eyes settle on her. Isabela looks away from her. "I meant to come see you," she says nervously. She notices a few things in the room that are out of place and quickly picks them up. "I don't know. Time got away from me. It's so dark in here." She goes to a lantern and tries to light it. Maybe if she shines the light in Hawke's face she'll vanish.

It's important to have light. All she can see now are the shadows of Hawke's face and the pale color of her eyes, hard as diamonds. The lantern gives her trouble. The darkness makes her unsteady.

"You cut your hair. I hardly recognized you." She waits for a response but doesn't get it. Why did Hawke cut her hair…? What would it be like to run her fingers over the hair now? Would she be different? Feel different? Look different? "You're not here to get your jollies, are you?" Isabela gives up on the lantern and turns around with a self-deprecating smile. "It's been a while. I wouldn't mind getting caught up." Hawke remains expressionless. Isabela's embarrassed. She laughs. "It was a joke." She runs a hand through her hair and takes a seat on the bed. "I heard you didn't come to Lowtown anymore. Fitting enough—Lowtown isn't home for a champion."

"What do you know of champions?"

Isabela smiles at the crack. Hawke's voice is flat and cold. "Maybe not as much as some." Her head throbs. If she'd known Hawke was coming—she might have drank more. "So if you're not here to fuck me, why are you here? To chat? We were never good at talking. Especially this late into the night."

"Merrill asked me to see you."

"Merrill?" she scoffs softly. "I didn't know you were in the habit of doing anything she wanted." Hawke looks back at her. Isabela sees nothing. Hawke remains by the door, ready to depart at a moment's notice. Hawke and Merrill… why are they so bothersome. "If I'm sorry about anything it's about coming back to begin with. I'm still in danger. Castillon is after me. He's like some infection that keeps coming back. If I'd taken the tome I'd be safe. But I didn't."

"I suppose you regret it."

"Right. Like I said. It's my skin."

"I could try to appeal to your sense of morality but what's the sense in it. You don't give a damn about anyone but yourself."

Isabela rolls her eyes. "Bitter because I was gone so long?"

"People died for your lies and cowardice. You were content with the Qunari massacre. All those people that died—but it doesn't matter to you. You could have returned that blasted tome in the beginning. You didn't."

"How could I when I didn't know where it was?" Hadn't they discussed this often? Would she have fretted as often as she did if she knew its location? Isabela wonders how often truth will shield other truth.

"You pretended not to know what it was."

Isabela can't argue with facts— even if they're misleading. Hawke's mind is stubbornly set. "The moral of this story being that I'm the scourge of mankind. I'm familiar with this one." She stands and hates that Hawke remains so predictable, saying all the things Isabela knew and feared she would. "I wonder how forgiving you'd be if I never left to begin with." Still there is no reaction. "I remember the night I left. You made it sound as if I was a bloody hero."

"I was an idiot. And a liar. Like you. I never believed any of it."

"So you lied to me."

"I would have done more than that for you. Your absence gave me clarity."

So often people sully themselves for her sake. Don't they realize that she will do so easily enough by virtue of her company? "Finally realize I'm nothing more than a lying, thieving snake? It took you long enough. I tried to warn you. You didn't want to listen."

"Even snakes have their charms."

"Tell me how you really feel."

"I can't. I look at you… I don't feel anger or hate or sadness… I feel nothing."

"Maybe you never cared for me." Isabela bites her tongue. She's cold. Hawke's lips and eyes and features all say the same thing. The words are not unexpected. They don't hurt. Isabela, like Hawke, feels nothing. But this is different. She's used to being called a whore. She's used to being taken at face value. This is deeper, realer. Hawke has looked into the core of who she is and rejected her, clearheaded and without the meddling of lying emotions. "That was a nice talk." She returns her attention to the lantern. Her eyes sting. She's never been a weepy drunk. She's tired. "Oh." She fidgets with the lantern. "By the way… did you ever get the cloak? You seemed attached to it. I found it in a chest of old things. I got tired of dragging it around. I thought—it's the least I can do."

"It arrived in pieces. Bodahn was doing some cleaning. I don't know what he did with it."

Isabela's hands fall away from the lantern. "No harm done. It's not like I paid for it."

"Then it won't be missed. I saw you, as Merrill asked."

Isabela hears the spark of the fireplace. She turns to see the door to her room close. Hawke is gone. The fire burns. Isabela goes to it, watching it glimmer. Why does it glimmer? Isabela narrows her eyes. There's broken glass in it. Why is there glass— She reaches a hand into the fire before pulling it back with a hiss. Her fingers caress her burned flesh tenderly. The flames brightness makes her eyes burn. The ship in the bottle, no longer in a bottle, smolders and blackens.


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: Sorry, dear ones. I'm forgetful and life has been insane, to put it mildly. Here's the next chapter, which is fucking long! Jeez, maybe I should just commit to myself to post a new chapter every Saturday or something? Sheesh... Thank you for your patience and for wanting to see more of this story. Makes me feel like I did something right!

 

* * *

 

xxx

The conversation with Isabela leaves her spent.

Hawke leans against the door and tries to get her bearings. With great effort she pushes away to stand without support. She drags her hand against the wall. The hallways seems impossibly long. Her knees buckle but she rights herself, taking one faltering step after another.

Varric sees her. Varric talks to her but she continues walking, proud of herself, hating herself. By the time she reaches the stairs to descend into the tavern her head is high and nothing looks to bother her.

xxx

Giggling wakes her. Hawke keeps her eyes closed and turns on her side with an exhausted sigh. A kiss is pressed to her back. Hands glide along her thighs and stomach. Her name is whispered. She ignores it. Someone nips on her earlobe. She sighs with pleasure this time. The hands along her stomach have traveled up, cupping her. As have the hands on her inner thighs.

Hawke opens her eyes. Where is she? Where's her clothing? Bright morning light spills into the room, chasing colorful curtains that flutter gently in the breeze. This isn't her home. This home is even grander than hers, the bed almost an island. The room is a home in itself. The laughter comes again.

"She wakes," the woman says. Hawke looks at her. Blonde, blue-eyed, attractive, fair. Hawke doesn't know who she is. How did she get here? "Good morning, Champion," the woman kisses her sweetly on the lips.

"Mh, don't take her all for yourself, Sister," says another voice, ducking her fingers beneath Hawke's chin and kissing her. Hawke sees the face after the kiss. Another pretty, young blonde. Hawke can't say that blonde has ever been her type though both women, naked and young, clearly noble, are attractive. Hawke looks further and spots several bottles of wine. She has a massive headache. She grimaces. "We drank enough wine last night to fill a tub," the woman informs her.

That explains the headache. Hawke touches her fingers to her forehead until it goes away. She falls back onto the pillow. "I had no idea that the Champion was so depraved," says the first blonde, "you know, others have asked us to do those things before," she eyes her sister shyly, "but we've always told them to stuff it."

Hawke looks between the two cautiously. Should she apologize? She can't bring herself to say much of anything. What did she ask them to do? She can hazard some guesses but…

"But it's good to know, if we're ever bored," says the second sister. Hawke can't tell which one of them is older. Are they twins? Her face flushes. "Oh, Maker? Are you embarrassed?"

"I don't quite…" Hawke stammers.

"She's precious," says the first. "You were a tiger last night." She kisses her softly.  _Hawke is an absolute tiger between the sheets. I mean, all night, every night._  Hawke squeezes her eyes shut not wanting to hear her voice. "I don't think I've ever been fucked that hard. Why, you've left me full of scratches." The pouting girl turns to show her arms and back.

"Sorry," Hawke breathes. She touches her fingers along the girls back, healing them, feeling nails raking along her arms and back as she does so. She gasps softly, taking a strange satisfaction from the pain.

"Don't ever apologize for that again," the woman says, dazzled by the healing that has just taken place.

"Do you remember any of it?" the second woman asks. Her hand glides along the inside of Hawke's thighs. "Perhaps you're in need of a reminder. We don't have that luncheon for some hours yet," she tells her sister. "There's time to misbehave," she leans forward and catches the other woman's mouth. Hawke wonders if they really are sisters. But who is she to tell them to stop? She can't say that she wants them to.

One of them lowers to kiss her. The other touches her and kisses her elsewhere. Four hands along her, knowing and whispering filth into her ears. Whatever sadness she feels it's impossible to hold on to when she's being stimulated so. The kisses between her and the women grow passionate. She could ask their names but she does not want them, happy with anonymity.

Hawke shifts, flipping one of the girls onto her back. She squeals with laughter. These young women laugh at anything. What happy lives they've had. So unlike her own saturnine nature. Perhaps Hawke should endeavor to be more like them. She's done enough for Kirkwall. She ought to focus on herself. Hedonism and debauchery—she's earned that, hasn't she? Who does she have to set a good example for? Hightown nobles are the most degenerate people she's met in her life. She lifts the woman's leg, lifting it beside her hip, sliding her fingers along the silken skin. The woman smiles, running her hands along her. "Let's see if I can't outdo myself," Hawke tells her.

"Don't forget about me," the sister protests.

Hawke kisses her beautiful, spoiled mouth. "I can never forget a beautiful woman," Hawke tells her. She pushes Isabela from her mind. "Wait your turn. Or help me attend to your sweet sister."

The sisters don't make their luncheon.

xxx

"If I know Hawke," Aveline tells Varric, "she's alone somewhere, miserable at this very moment." She doesn't typically take the time to stop and speak to Varric but his concern was enough to give Aveline pause. "You know how she likes to mope, Maker bless her," she mutters the last, not inclined to think that the Maker thinks of blessing Hawke or anyone else. "Do you know if they talked, at least?"

"Can't say. No sighting of Rivaini yet—and no answer when I knocked."

"I don't suppose she's out being a productive member of society," Aveline sighs, resting her hands on her hips but maintaining a lookout for criminals in the area. "Isabela shouldn't have waited so long to see her." If they did see each other.

"No arguing that," Varric grimaces.

"And I can't say I blame Hawke for not giving her a warm reception. I was happy to see her," she says resentfully, "but we don't have the same relationship." She shakes her head. "I'll keep an eye out for Hawke. You do the same for the slattern."

"When you put it in such a charming way how can I refuse? I'll let you be on your way to continue to terrify criminals and the rest of the honest folk." Aveline glowers at him but he smiles in his smug way and moves along. Aveline continues to patrol Lowtown. Years ago she feared that if Isabela returned Hawke would instantly forgive her and she'd fall into her same, daft patterns.

Is Hawke unable to forgive her? Aveline should approve. Hawke was a shade after Isabela left. But… if Hawke looked that way, as he described, anguished at Isabela's door… maybe there's some feeling there for Isabela still. Aveline isn't sure that there should be—nor is she sure that Isabela cares for Hawke. She's always been selfish. Oh, who is she to concern herself over the love lives of those two idiots?

At Hawke's birthday party years ago they had both seemed… happy. Aveline can't remember any other time she's seen either look that way.

xxx

"I-sa-be-la."

Isabela yanks the covers over her head. She doesn't know what time it is. Her head feels as if it's being hammered with spikes. At this rate death might be a blessed relief. Or maybe she needs more drink to numb the pain.

Her name again, far too loud. Her shoulder is pulled at. Someone is bloody crawling over her. She sticks a hand out from under the covers, fumbling for a dagger. She'll kill whatever intruder it is and return to sleep. She hasn't slept. Not since Hawke left.

Her arm hurts.

Merrill yanks the covers back. The light is blinding. Isabela utters a cry of pain at the brightness that obliterates the room, highlighting every nook and cranny. "Merrill," she hates to hear her own voice, deafening, even in its weak state. "What are you doing?"

"I knocked and knocked and knocked. And then Varric found me and said—"

Isabela tunes her out. There's noise. So much noise. And Merrill. Did Hawke fuck Merrill? Stupid little Merrill with her smiles and her sharp words and angles? Isabela tries to push her away. She needs to sleep. She wants to be alone. She's allowed to be alone. Even whores need their private time, even whores don't bloody smile all the time, even traitors need time to recover. Whatever Merrill says, Isabela doesn't want to hear it. Why did she come back to Kirkwall? "Go away," she mutters into the pillow.

Merrill takes hold of her arm. Isabela bites back a yell. Merrill gasps. "What happened?" She demands. Her voice again is far too loud. Isabela sits up suddenly and still Merrill doesn't let go of her hand. "It's burned. Isabela—what did you do?"

"Nothing," she rips her arm away. "You think this is the worst thing that's ever happened to me?" She scoffs. "You're so naïve. Now let me sleep. You wouldn't believe the hangover I've got. This is one for the books."

"You need to have that looked at," Merrill says tenderly touching Isabela's shoulder, trying to get her to look at her. "It'll scar and …mottle—oh, what's the word—burns aren't good, Isabela. I'll get Hawke—"

"No!" Isabela sits up. "Mind your own bloody business, for once! Just once! You know, I never bloody told you to send Hawke over here. I don't want to see her, I don't want to see you, I want to sleep! All right?"

Merrill's eyes fill with tears. Isabela's heart doesn't know whether to be moved or not. Since when does Hawke do what Merrill wants? Three years pass and everything changes. Including her feelings towards Merrill? Did Isabela ever know them? "I just want to help you," Merrill breathes shakily.

"I'm a big girl, Merrill. My fuck ups are my own. Just as yours are your own. So stay out of it." Isabela notices how tightly she has her fingers wrapped around Merrill's thin arm. The tears fall from Merrill's face, sliding off her chin and onto Isabela's burned flesh. They burn like acid. Isabela bites back a hiss.

Merrill wipes her face self-consciously. "I'm sorry. I always do this. I always mean to do the right thing—and then. I hurt…" Isabela doesn't hear the last. It might be 'everybody' but she isn't sure. Merrill's lower lip trembles. She weeps silently.

Isabela stares at her. Then she pulls her close. Merrill buries her face in the crook of Isabela's neck, tears continuing to scald her. Isabela sighs. "You stupid girl. I know. It's all right." She strokes Merrill's back, feeling too much and then nothing at all. "I've already forgotten, Kitten."

xxx

Maybe the people of Kirkwall talk so freely around her because she has sided with Knight-Commander Meredith in her public arguments with Orsino.

_Those robes are always trying to change our minds. They shouldn't be allowed to speak in public._

_Those magickers need to be taught a lesson._

_We're not safe while mages walk the streets._

It bothers Hawke. That’s new.

Knight-Commander Meredith has summoned her to her study. Hawke sits for long minutes. Meredith always makes it a point to make her wait until she is good and ready to speak. "Are you aware of a mage underground resistance movement? I've heard tell there is a rebel faction in Darktown. Are you by any chance acquainted with a man believed to be a mage—Anders? There is some talk of a clinic he runs."

Hawke reclines uncomfortably against the stiff chair. Hawke recalls Anders talk of the underground resistance movement. He asked her to help him. She refused. "I don't make it a point to spend time in Darktown." She smiles palely. "It's not the sort of place for a noble, is it?"

"Oh?" Meredith dips her quill in ink and resumes writing without so much as a glance. "I have various accounts of you spending a great deal of time there some years ago."

"Then you must also have accounts of my aid to the Templars when blood mages infiltrated your Order, unbeknownst to you, until I revealed the deception."

Meredith looks up at Hawke. She sets her quill down and looks at her long and hard. "I imagine you think yourself clever."

Hawke returns her even stare, her voice just as even. "We should all aspire to cleverness." Meredith is unconvinced. "Or perhaps I shouldn't? Am I to always be regarded suspiciously? Do you think people incapable of overcoming their nature?"

"Have you ever set your magic down? Could you, if you wanted to?"

"How grand it must be to be a Templar. Unquestioned and without tarnish. What bright men and women you have here." Hawke turns her head to see one of the helmed men. She wonders if all suits are donned by men and women or if others are empty impersonators.

"I do not like your tone, Champion."

"Nor I yours." She stands. "I know nothing of your Mage underground. Are we done here?"

"Yes," she says icily.

Hawke regards her. The Knight-Commander is a stunning and forceful woman. Hawke has little doubt that her actions have made Kirkwall safer in the past. But does she still? Her demeanor towards her has chilled considerably with the passing of years. Hawke wonders if it's with good cause. "You'll forgive me if I'm out of sorts, Knight-Commander. I've…some things on my mind, unrelated to all of this," she adds vacantly, "and I'm somewhat distracted."

"I see." Meredith stands and moves around the desk. Her eyes are like daggers pinning into her. Whenever Hawke is beneath her gaze she feels weak and exposed. She wonders if the Templars ever falter in their duty, if they're as righteous as they seem. They see whores at the Blooming Rose but is there more? Do they do more? Hawke is suddenly consumed by the question, as if a flame in her has been ignited. "Find a way to remedy that distraction. Kirkwall can little afford to have our Champion distracted." A sliver of a smile touches her lips. "Women in our positions have much to think of, no doubt. Know that our relationship is mutually beneficial. If you have need of aid and the cause is just—I will lend you personal assistance."

"Thank you." Hawke imagines a touch on her face but it was just that, imagined. Meredith remains close, Hawke unsure whether to intimidate her or otherwise. Hawke bows. "It was lovely to see you, as always, Knight-Commander." She leaves.

xxx

Gamlen has bought her a drink.

Isabela groans inwardly. She wishes she'd known it was from him before she took a drink. Now he's smiling lecherously and sidling his way up to her. Isabela keeps her gaze straight ahead, orders another drink to deal with him, and does her best to ignore him.

"Thought you'd slipped town, girl," Gamlen tells her. He looks sweaty, his face stubbly and drawn, pale. It's hard to believe that Hawke comes from the same stock. "And here you are all these years later. I was beginning to think you'd left me for good."

"I'd have to be with you to leave you," Isabela points out. She left Hawke. She sighs. He smells sweaty. Alcohol seeps from his pores. "Thanks for the drink," she finishes it and slides the empty shot-glass to the bartender. "But I'm not going to fuck you."

"I never—" he sputters. Isabela looks at him and he scowls. "I thought you were… you know… adventurous… free…" he is both angry and leering.

"Adventurous and free, not lonely and desperate. You're near old enough to be my father."

"As if that's stopped you before," he says defensively. "I know your type." Gamlen orders another pint for himself, looking at her resentfully. Isabela hates that he's right. She has been with men old enough to be her father—but that wasn't necessarily her choice. "Come on. Live a little. I know you and my niece were… you know… screwing." Something about the way he says the last word is almost enough to make Isabela blush. She's got to give it to him—he takes sleaziness to new levels. "But that was before. She's the Champion now… she has noble men and women to attend to her. You're a nobody, just like me. And don't think those looks of yours are going to last! They've already started to go downhill far as I'm concerned. Women only have so much time before they've reached their prime and you're long past it."

"Oh, Gamlen. What a ladies man you are. It's hard to believe you're still single." Isabela looks sidelong at him. Hawke lived with this man for years? And it took a killer for Leandra to finally get a rest from him. Lucky bitch.

"I don't have to be," Gamlen lashes a hand out, grasping her arm too tightly, "not tonight." The pain her arm flares painfully. "Face it, girl, the closest thing you'll get to a Hawke these days is  _me_. The Champion isn't the only one who can slip it to you. You've got an ass I could ride from here to—"

Isabela doesn't know how he goes from talking to slumped on the floor. Later she vaguely recalls grabbing a fistful of his hair and, slamming his head too fiercely down on the bartop.

And then, once again, she's in the brig. Completely worth it.

xxx

Aveline is near certain that it is a templar she has seen hurry past her and out the front door of the Hawke estate. She knows that sanctimonious gleam of armor anywhere. It seems to her that many templars spend their time polishing swords and armor and not practicing the laws they claim to follow.

Aveline exits the kitchen curiously, eyebrows narrowed. She hasn't seen Hawke in weeks. Kirkwall is getting restless again. She's afraid that civil war is on the way. Where is the Champion to allay the fears of the people? To talk sense into the First Enchanter or Knight-Commander Meredith? Where is Hawke? Become a hermit once more?

Aveline gives Hawke the benefit of the doubt. It is possible she was discussing business with the Templar and he merely had urgent business to attend to. Aveline climbs the stairs to the second floor and calls out Hawke's name. She gets no response. What if he's slain her? Hawke is capable but something of a lush these days. He could take her if her guard was down. Aveline bursts into the room. The bed sheets are in order. Aveline looks about cautiously for signs of foul play but finds nothing. She moves to the bathroom, nearly battering the door in in the process.

Hawke is in a bubble bath in the tub, a bottle of wine in her hand. "Aveline!" Hawke raises the bottle to her.

"Don't stand," Aveline warns when she sees Hawke begin efforts to do just that. Her eyes sparkle gleefully, bubbles line her arms and shoulders. "What the void are you doing? Was there a templar here just now?"

Hawke shrugs with a smile. "Won't you have a glass of wine?"

"It's early. Too early."

"Your loss."

"Were you with that man? Was that Cullen? Or another one?" Aveline asks. Hawke has a drink of wine. "What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing. I was having a grand morning until you came along," she sighs softly and sets the bottle of wine down. "Whoever he was he had a magnificent chest and arms. So...strong. Good for pinning." She laughs. "Have you any idea how many surfaces the library has?" Aveline scowls. "What? I'm not allowed to have fun now?"

"I thought you were Champion, not Whore of Kirkwall." Aveline says morosely. Hawke laughs again. Why does she laugh? It sounds genuine… "So on top of running errands for the Templars, you bed them, too? I suppose they'll save coin at the Rose. What an obliging apostate you are."

"Are you here for a particular reason?" Hawke asks. "While you're here do you want to get my back? There's a spot I can't reach."

Aveline backhands her. More laughter. Her lip bleeds. "Hawke…" Aveline flushes with guilt. She hadn't meant to. "Snap out of it."

"You're so judgmental." Hawke smiles but then it weakens and falls away. "Do you honestly believe that any of us can be as good as you?" Her arms, previously draped over the tub, lower and search for the bottle. They remain cheerfully decorated in bubbles.

"You know I don't care if you have lovers or what you do with your lovers—"

"Right."

She hates that empty way about her. "This is not you, Hawke." Aveline kneels beside her, looks into her face. This silly woman, the little family that she has. Seeing her this way rends her heart. "I know you're upset about Isabela—"

"They're hypocrites." Hawke cuts her off, her voice still unfeeling before anger makes its way into it. She abandons the search for the wine bottle and brings her arms back beneath the water. "The Templars. Do you know what they like? How they talk? What they do?" she laughs caustically. "It's sick. Fun…but sick."

Aveline can't recall a time when Hawke has spoken against the Templars. Aveline tenderly wipes the blood from Hawke's lip. "But you do it...?"

"I wanted to know. Who they are." Hawke smiles and looks at her. "Maybe I wanted to apologize. For what happened before. I'm sick, too."

Aveline doesn't know what she means. Nor is she fooled by Hawke's smiles. She's known her long enough to tell the real ones from the false ones. She worriedly wonders if the only peace Hawke will ever know is that of the grave.

xxx

"Let's talk."

Isabela goes to the bars. The brig isn't terrible. Nothing she's horribly unused to, anyway. But she hates the nights. She hates the high windows and the cold, the way she can smell the salty sea air, taunting her. It's like being in the hold.

"Oh, Varric. When will you learn that talking is the last thing I want to do with you?" She smiles down at him. "And why can't I help but feel that whatever you're here about I don't want to hear?"

Varric chuckles. "Rivaini—you're a great deal of things—but stupid isn't one of them. Actually, I've come to spring you out. I have a small stipend set aside just for these occasions."

Isabela smiles. "Really?"

"But that isn't what I've come to discuss," he raises his hands. "Believe it or not I'm as bad as any old hen. I've come to gossip! I've missed your face at Diamondback games! There's a game tonight and I was hoping to take your coin."

"It defeats the purpose if you're springing me out of here. And if you take my coin I have nothing to be grateful for at all." She wraps her hands around the bars and leans her forehead into the cool metal. "If you buy me a pitcher or two I'll think of joining you."

"Done and done!" Varric looks up at her. "A game awaits and I did promise to bring the entertainment. But first things first. What's going on with you and Hawke?" Isabela groans. "Hear me out—you took your sweet time going to see her. Far as I can tell she finally came to you."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"How'd it go?"

"I said I don't want to talk about it." She touches her arm, still aching painfully. Yes, she could have had it healed. Maybe she only wants the painful reminder. Screw around with Hawke and get burned—literally. Balls. "It went—" she bites her tongue. "Merrill sent her to see me." Varric shrugs. "It went about as well as I expected it to."

"She'll get over it."

"No, Varric, she won't. She bloody won't. And why should she? I know what I did." Isabela paces. She looks through the barred window and back to Varric in the shadows. Suddenly the brig is appealing. Is Hawke going to be at the card game tonight? Hawke with her cold eyes? That Hawke of so many years ago…? "It doesn't matter. I didn't come back here for her."

"Why did you come back? We all figured you long gone. All except for her, maybe Daisy. But we asked. We all asked and she always said you were coming back." Varric laughs. "Kid may be wrong about a lot of things but not about that. You came back."

"A lot of good that's done me," she mutters.

"Did you two have a fight?"

"A fight requires passion," Isabela brings her hands to her hips, continuing to pace. "All I got was a cold fish." She wishes Hawke had yelled, hit her. That could have been foreplay. It could have been  _fun_. She wouldn't have minded a little spanking. But no… there was nothing. Isabela imagined their reunion in many different ways. Never like that—not like that Hawke of years ago. Isabela wonders if she hurt her. She thinks of her ship in a bottle. How did it get in the fireplace? Does Hawke know she ruined it…? "I'm done with it."

"I saw her leave." Varric says. "She didn't look… right. You were gone a while and maybe she's pissed. Maybe she's got a right to be. But if you still care about her…don't count yourself out yet." He shrugs. "That's all I got."

The guard comes and unlocks the door. It's several minutes later that Isabela finds the courage to exit.

xxx

They're all at the Hanged Man gathered around one of the larger tables. Even Donnic is in attendance. Fenris pauses in the middle of conversation with him to stand and wave to her. "Out of the brig already?" he asks, a grin on his normally petulant lips.

The rest chime in with their own commentary. Isabela extends an arm and bows formally for them, causing more cheers and laughter. Hawke stands to the corner with her arms crossed, engaged in what looks like a serious conversation with Anders. She looks her way ever slowly and turns away as slowly, as if only imagining her.

Isabela focuses on the others but is too conscious of Hawke's proximity. If she listens carefully she can hear her voice, hard and business like. It is there beneath all the rumblings and the chatter, beneath the throwing of coin and the slamming of drinks.

Then, the conversation between Anders and Hawke is complete. He joins the group and Isabela snatches his arm, yanking him down on the seat beside her. Merrill 'slips' away from the group and goes to Hawke who keeps her distance from the table. "Was that Hawke you were having a conversation with?" Isabela asks Anders. "I thought all the two of you did was issue death threats."

"Not too far from that," he admits grimly, "still this is—strange. She's come to tell me that Meredith has her eyes on me. That the clinic and Darktown are being watched." He shakes his head. "I can't figure it out. All these years I thought she was crazy. Maybe she still is. Even she seems confused about it. Maybe she's finally opening her eyes. Either way, I've got my hands full for the night."

Isabela wonders how much a person can change. Warning Anders about the very people she often threatened to turn him into? Befriending Merrill? Isabela notices Merrill pull on Hawke's sleeve, Hawke bend down to listen. Merrill's lips are so close to her ear that she could be kissing it. Hawke doesn't turn to look at the table but Merrill does. Her eyes catch Isabela's and she pulls away and returns to the table.

Hawke remains, surrounded by the adoring patrons of the establishment. Varric laughs and begins to tell the group the embellishments he's added to the legend that is Hawke. Aveline is irritated. Hawke appears mildly aggravated by the inconvenience (Isabela recognizes the strained smile) though she bears it well. Isabela plays cards. She  _loses_  coin. She loses a small purse's worth by the time she decides it's time to end her run for the night. Damn Hawke for distracting her.

"Quitting already?" Varric asks. "You're letting Aveline clean you out. Aveline!" He points for good measure.

"Very funny, Varric," Aveline scowls. Donnic kisses her cheek and she  _flushes_.

Isabela wonders what security and true happiness in a relationship must be like. Does it even exist…? She tells herself it doesn't matter. It's only curiosity—like the fragrance of some untried food or the sharpness of a blade. Isabela smiles and departs from the table. Hawke's chilly gaze holds her own as Isabela moves past the attention hungry throngs and exits into the cold air of the night. It's a decent night for a cloak. She wore one in particular for two and a half years before regretfully parting with it and returning it to its rightful owner. She is an expert seamstress but could not bear to make any reparations that might alter it from its original, heroic condition.

xxx

The waves are picking up.

Hawke goes to the docks. She looks at the statue they created for her, large and gold cast. With minor modifications, it would look no different than the statues that hang in the Gallows and ominously welcome newcomers to Kirkwall. She wishes they'd take it down. Did she earn it? Maybe, through her deeds. But what does she do now? Drink and wench. It is a muted happiness. All she has is physical pleasure but it isn’t enough. Something is missing. It’s similar to how she felt when the Templar took her magic during their union, as if her soul had flitted away.

"So do all Champions get a statue when they get the title or are you just special?" Isabela asks. Hawke turns. Isabela stands behind her. Hawke assumed she would make her way to the Blooming Rose or… anywhere else. The dancing light is back in Isabela's eyes. She even has a smile but it is different from the one of years ago. Hawke can't identify the difference. "What a monstrosity. This thing scared the piss out of me when I arrived."

Is that why it took her over a month to see her? "I thought the only thing that scared you was sobriety and integrity."

"Oh, here we go again." Isabela goes to the statue and touches the lettering. "Look, if it makes you feel any better I'm sorry I took the book and caused whatever ill, I caused. Let's wipe our hands clean of it. I really don't want to listen to all of this while I'm in Kirkwall. I messed up, all right?" she sighs and looks back at her.

The words are right but Isabela is irreverent. Hawke doesn't understand the point in blatantly false apologies. "You did. But I can't say I'm convinced by this performance of yours. It would be easy to wipe your hands clean of it. But why take any responsibility for what happened? That would be inconvenient."

"What would you have me do? Cry about it?" she chuckles. "No thanks. Besides, without a thieving whore, you'd have no mess, no title, no statue. You'd be hiding in the shadows, not living the high life. You ought to thank me for everything I've done for you."

Hawke grinds her jaw. Then her lips twist into a smile. "Thank you."

Isabela looks away, walks away. Hawke follows. "Why are you following me? Did Merrill send you today, too? I must say, you've perfected the Kirkwall's errand bitch routine. Now you run errands for everyone, including those you can't stand. You used to have a measure of integrity. Save the comment—I know what integrity is, even if our definitions don't entirely match up."

"Are you finished?"

"Yes, but you're still here. Answer the question—did she send you or not?"

"Yes. I didn't expect to find you." She hadn't. Hawke thought Isabela would take her worries and go to the Blooming Rose, not to the docks. Does she still come to stare at the ships? Didn't she have enough years on a ship? What else could she have done? What  _did_  she do while she was gone? Fight and fuck? Is she good for anything else? Hawke wonders if  _she_  is.

"I wish you hadn't."

"You talked to  _me_."

"And how dare a lowly non-noble engage the mighty Champion Hawke in conversation."

"You bloody well know that isn't what I meant."

"Why are you here? Why are you following me? Why are you talking to me right now?" Isabela rounds on her sharply. "You have made it  _abundantly_  clear what you think of me. I could wade through that crap you said the other night for hours and not find one redeeming bit."

"I didn't know you returned to be redeemed."

Isabela tsks. "I didn't." She looks at her. "So, you hate me. I get it." Hawke stares at her. "When did you start? When I took the Tome? When I took other lovers when we were together? When I didn't come back? When I came back? When I saw you in the Deep Roads with your brother?" Hawke's jaw clenches. "When did you let it sink in?" There's a long silence. Isabela walks again. Hawke walks beside her. "Is that why you fucked Merrill?" How does she know about that? Why would Merrill bother stopping it if she was going to tell Isabela in the end? "No response? Not even an indignant protest?"

"What am I expected to say against such ridiculous accusations?"

"I'm not looking for the 'if', I'm looking for the 'why'. Merrill's so sweet and  _stupid_. Did the Champion take advantage of her? She always looked up to you. For some reason. She desperately wanted your approval."

"You could stand to give Merrill more credit. She isn't the stupid, naïve thing you imagine her to be."

"But she is a blood mage. Have you forgotten?" She stops again. "Andraste's ass, who the Void are you?"

"You would rather I hate Merrill?"

"You're  _different_." Isabela says. Hawke doesn't think so. "Everything's different," she says frustrated. Her eyes are momentarily downcast. Hawke watches her while she can, while Isabela doesn't know. Isabela lifts her face. Hawke is caught staring openly. Her face is a mask. "Merrill told me." Isabela mutters. "I don't know why you'd bother to lie about it." Merrill told her? That is like Merrill. Hawke takes a breath. "You took advantage of her. You must have."

Her? Take advantage of Merrill? She considers their arrangement. Merrill was the aggressor more often than not. Her skinny arms and legs would hold her down. Her typically stammering, nervous mouth would seize hers relentlessly. Hawke never minded, discovering what a wonderful thing it is to be possessed. She rarely took others. Not until later when she made a conscious decision to take Hightown lovers, a necessity to bypass the forging of dangerous attachments. Good thinking in the end. She realizes she's said nothing.

Isabela smiles boldly, her eyes fire. "Your silence is as good as any admission." She laughs darkly. "Was it like fucking knives?"

It's surprising and disconcerting that Isabela remembers things she's said years ago. It confuses things. "No. It was better. Much better." Merrill gave her closeness and intimacy. Will she ever have that again? With anybody? Will anybody want her after she's outlived her usefulness? When she’s old? If she makes it to ‘old’. The Hightown nobles fawn over her but she's only a party favor to them. As her popularity wanes so will their affection. She shakes the thoughts, remembering why Merrill asked her to seek Isabela. She lashes a hand out and takes her arm.

Isabela stifles a yelp and tries to shake her off. "Get your hands off me."

"Anders is attending to runaway mages," Hawke yanks her closer, "and while it matters little to me if your arm were to rot and fall away, Merrill has asked that I look at it." Hawke realizes this is the first time she has touched Isabela in over three years. She focuses on the cool, soft skin beneath her fingers. She's holding her breath. The release of it is a near gasp.

"I don't  _need_  your help. My arm is  _fine_."

Hawke sees the enflamed, swollen flesh. "What did you do?"

"Nothing. The lantern glass shattered, if you must know."

"And it did this?" she asks, too viciously.

"What does it matter how it happened?"

"You should have taken care of this long before now. Do you think numbing yourself into oblivion with drink is going to help?"

"Isn't that what you do?" Isabela asks. "I hear you pound enough back to start a winery." Isabela smiles still even as Hawke's grip tightens. Who told her that? Was it Aveline? "How the mighty fall. You're no better than me."

"I never claimed to be." She squeezes her arm harder. "I don't want to talk. So shut up." Her touch goes gingerly over the burned flesh, hot to the touch, splitting and red. "Why did you leave it like this?"

"I wanted a hook for a hand."

"You're bound to get it at this rate," Hawke tells her. She takes a breath and knows this will hurt. Why the void is she doing this? Warmth races up her arm before the blaze takes it. She feels it, beneath the fabric of her clothing growing hot and painful, melting away all feeling for one brief, numbing, glorious moment before there is nothing but an excruciating ache. For a split instant she is incapable of even thought. Her hand falls away from Isabela and she grips her burning arm with a strangled cry. She walks off, holding on to it pathetically. Isabela follows. "What did you bloody do?" Hawke growls.

"I told you…!" Isabela says. She looks at her pitifully. "Well—are you all right?" Hawke takes deep, hurried breaths. She is used to the feeling of cuts, stabbings and broken bones. She is unused to the burn of fire. To think that she has inflicted on others… the guilt of being an apostate returns in full force. "Are you—"

Hawke fumbles in her jacket pocket. Her fingers shakily catch a small glass vial. She lifts it, pulling the cork with her teeth and swallowing the sip's worth of clear drink. Her body tingles and loses all feeling. The effects of the agent will last minutes, long enough for her to finish what she has to do.

Hawke looks at Isabela's arm. It's still red and agitated. Hawke touches it again and is comforted when she feels nothing from the contact. The rest of the healing goes quickly though Hawke is left exhausted and knows that her arm will ache for hours before the pain subsides. Her fingers don't leave Isabela's arm immediately despite the absence of injury.

"Someone broke into my room when I was gone." Isabela says. "Everything was… out of place." She examines her arm carefully, seemingly impressed with its mobility. "And other things I couldn't find at all."

"I didn't know you valued anything." Had she taken anything? Hawke visited the room when Isabela first disappeared. She hadn't been of the mind to memorize everything. Even now she regrets not doing so. "Did you take anything with you when you left?"

"I don't care for things." She paces slowly. "Anyway… someone… put something in the fireplace. I didn't notice it in there and I started a fire. I guess I reached for it without thinking…"

"So it wasn't a lantern?"

"Fine. It wasn't. I lied. Shocking, I know."

"What was in the fireplace?" Hawke asks. Isabela parts her lips. "Even children know not to put their hands in fire."

"Everyone knows doing the smart thing is the boring thing. I wasn't thinking."

"Do you ever?"

"You wanted to know what happened. I told you. I didn't ask for this," she lifts her arm, "and now will you just bloody hold it over my head? Just like you'll hold the Tome and the others and everything else over me? Taking the equivalent of poison," she snatches the small vial from Hawke's hand and throws it to the ground where she grinds it into dust, "for me? Why? So I can hear about it later?"

"No." Hawke shuffles. "I don't do that."

"Sure you don’t." Isabela sighs. She runs a hand over her face. "Fact of the matter is that you can't stop yourself from your stupid nobility. Do you think people care about your good deeds? Do you think people will love you more for it? People will use you up and spit you out once they're done with you. That is the nature of people. If you think that's ever going to change you're a bigger fool than I imagined."

"So you would have me believe that the world is nothing but selfishness and loathing? That it would be better to give up and allow everyone and everything in this world to spiral into madness? I won't do it. I won't believe in it. People are better than that. Maybe I won't see the best of people, maybe I don't deserve to. But goodness exists. In Varric, in Aveline, in bloody Merrill, maybe even in you and the Knight-Commander." Hawke doesn't notice her shoulders slouch. "I'm going home. I'm tired. You make me tired."

"That wasn't always a bad thing," Isabela says when Hawke's taken a few steps back in the direction of Hightown. Hawke stops, unsure if from her own exhaustion or Isabela's words. Isabela catches up to her. "A long, long time ago I knew what hate was. Ooh, and anger. Holding on to it is tiring. That's why it's best to just let it slide off your shoulders and let it go. Just let it go. Like it or not I'm back and we run in the same circles. I know you have a penchant for all things awkward—but I'd rather not. We used to have fun together."

"That was over three years ago."

"I know how long ago it was." Isabela says quietly. "I don't know what I have to say. Everything you think about me is true. I'm selfish and irresponsible. You could go on for hours about my terrible qualities. And you—all I can think to mock you for is helping people? Having a drink now and then?" She laughs and brings a hand to her forehead. "I'm the worst. But at least I know it. That's a start isn't it…? I'm not completely oblivious. Not always, anyways… Not that it helps anything." She shifts her weight from one to another. "Won't you say anything?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"That you'll forgive everything and we can forget what's happened?" She smiles grimly. "I said I was selfish—not that I could stop being that way."

"I can't forget what's happened." If only she could. Their issues are far more than the debacle with the Tome of Koslun and any duel. Hawke knows in her heart she is angry for more than the deaths caused by the Qunari uprising. She is not so righteous. Death happens often in Kirkwall.

"I'm not asking you to forget everything. Just the bad things."

"I  _can't_." It would no doubt make her happier if she could. Isabela sighs dispiritedly. "Do you know how you've hurt me?" Hawke blurts out. She hates her voice and her words suffused with anguish. She straightens and takes a breath. "Just…forget it."

The tingling in her body is giving way, sensation slowly returning to her. The cold air of the night is pleasant against her skin. Her limbs feel fuzzy. She begins the unsteady walk back to Hightown once more. Where will she go? She doesn't want to be alone. She can think of a few noble girls and boys who might keep her company: light haired, light eyed and angular. The opposite of Isabela: the disappointing company she has preferred since she has allowed herself to take lovers again after accepting Isabela left her for good.

Different than Merrill.

Yes, those people, briefly satisfying and utterly forgettable. Easy lovers where she holds the control, whom she can discard when she pleases, who long after her long after she's gone. Not that she cares overly much. She answers their beckons when it suits her and never at any other time.

Hawke tries to sort out her mood. If she's feeling particularly vindictive against others, against herself, perhaps she'll take a Templar. Another one. She brings a hand to her face and tries to steady her fingers.

"Hawke."

Hawke stops and shakes her head. She grudgingly turns around to look at her. "Maker, Isabela. Just let me go."

"I will… Sorry, I…" Isabela bows her head thoughtfully. "I… don't really know why I called out to you just now." She bites her lip. "Sorry. That's what I wanted to say," she says slowly, grudgingly, uncomfortably. She stares at the ground and then hesitantly up at Hawke. "I'm sorry. About… what happened."

"What happened?" Hawke asks blankly.

"Maker. You really know how to make a girl squirm. And not how I'd like, this time." She laughs awkwardly. Hawke watches her, impassive and fatigued. "You know what I mean." Hawke doesn't. It could mean any number of things, each of which would take hours to debate. Isabela takes a step towards her. Hawke takes one back. It's reflex. Isabela smiles dejectedly. "Thanks for fixing my arm. I'll thank Merrill. Or you can thank her for me."

Hawke feels the blinding pain creeping up her arm and doubts she'll be thanking any of them any time soon. Why did she take this pain from Isabela? Did she do it because Merrill asked? Did she need a fresh reminder? Or was she looking for any excuse to touch her? "Do your own work." She resumes the walk. "You know, you're not the only one who makes bad decisions. Maker knows I have a list as long as my arm."

"What's your point?"

"My point is that you can accept it or you can do something about it. You can be  _more_  than you think. I've seen it. And so has everyone else who gives a damn about you. Maybe you're not meant to love anybody. That's fine," she nearly chokes on the words. "But you  _can_  be good and you  _can_  be kind and maybe that's inconvenient and terrifying because it requires more out of you than you'd like to give. You brought that Tome back."

"I stole it."

"You brought it back."

Isabela scoffs. "And that matters, suddenly? It didn't before. You even said it didn't. So what do you want?" she meanders closer, eyes narrowed. "You must want something."

"What could I want?"

"What everyone wants from a woman like me."

Hawke's face heats. She shouldn't have healed Isabela. She hates how her flesh feels as if it's being consumed by fire. She wants the pain to be sated, for the burning to be smothered by quenching waters. She doesn't have anything to numb the ache. "And you'd give it to me?" she asks softly, trying to keep her voice steady.

Isabela touches her face. "If you asked nicely." She steps closer. She smiles apologetically. "You wouldn't have to ask." She leans forward their lips nearly touching. Her voice is low. "I've… made mistakes. I know I have a lot to make up for."

"And how do you intend to make up for it?" Hawke fights the urge to kiss her. "You're not offering anything I can't get from anyone else. You've never wanted to be anything more than a body to me. You've never wanted me to be anything more to you."

"…You make it sound so terrible." She breathes. Her hand slides up her neck, delving into her hair. Hawke breathes shakily. "I want you." Isabela meets her eyes and repeats the words. Their lips graze. Isabela takes hold of her jacket and draws her close.

Hawke stills. "Stop," she murmurs. Isabela first presses her body and then her lips against Hawke. There is nothing she wants more. Hawke's lips part hesitantly. She allows it because she's weak. They kiss slowly. Everything aches. It's been so long that it almost feels real. For years Hawke dreamed of her and this moment.

The agent has worn off completely. The jarring, blinding pain in her arm, the reminder, makes Hawke pull away. She breathes raggedly. "I can't do this. Not again."

Hawke leaves, dizzy with pain, and makes it to Hightown. A noblewoman, one that reminds Hawke of Leliana invites her into her home. Her husband is out, her children asleep. Hawke and the woman drink wine for hours, talk and flirt. Eventually they go upstairs and make love, more vigorously so after the ache in Hawke's arm is dampened by the drink, by the passage of hours.

She is always the one to leave before the break of dawn. She goes home. She bathes. She has another glass of wine and goes to the chest beside her bed. In it is a token of Knight-Commander Meredith's esteem—the regalia of the Templars. Hawke had been confused and pleased to receive it. She guards it carefully but has told no one of the gift.

In the same chest, beneath the gleaming, beautiful, holy metal is the cloak, tattered and dutifully folded, her most precious belonging. She touches it and closes the chest.


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: This chapter was initially posted as 3 parts but given how much I suck at posting this on a timely schedule I'm going to throw them all up together. Thanks for the encouragement and trying to get me off my ass. So sorry for the long wait. 

 

16a

Hawke has been tasked with capturing loose mages. For the first time since moving to Kirkwall, Hawke is conflicted. She leaves the Gallows in a foul-mood and indignant. Is this what she is, just a dog to be used by the Knight-Commander to do her dirty work for her? What will Meredith do if Hawke returns the mages to her? Kill them? Yes, that's likely, regardless of their guilt.

It gives her a headache. She visits Merrill. They've hardly seen each other since Isabela returned and Hawke is sorry for it. What if Isabela hadn't returned? How might things have been different? Could they have made something together? It's no use thinking of it. Merrill ended things. Hawke is glad she saw others. Another break might have sent her over the brink. She rubs her forehead tenderly as Merrill sets a cup of tea in front of her. The cup has a design of leaves on it, chipped in corners, a crack along the side where tea seeps out slowly.

"Are you all right?" Merrill asks. She brushes her fingers along Hawke's forehead. The contact is unexpected. Hawke keeps her expression neutral. "Your hair's getting longer," Merrill murmurs. A glancing of their eyes makes Merrill pull her hand away.

"Why do you ask?"

She sits beside her on the table. "You seem, I don't know, bothered. It's been a while. I've missed you. Can I say that?"

Hawke smiles wryly. "Yes, of course." She sighs softly. "Have you been well? Are you… are you getting on with…everyone?" Hawke had never heard Isabela speak ill of Merrill until recently. It's jarring. Is she jealous? Or is Isabela only angry with Hawke for supposedly taking advantage of her?

"Yes." She says distractedly. "It's a work in progress. But things will get better; I know it. Things got better with us, didn't they? It only took… seven years or so."

Hawke laughs. "Sorry about that. I was a bit of a tit, wasn't I?" She takes a sip of the tea. It's scalding. She thinks of cooling it but leaves it alone. "Merrill—I'm sorry if… what happened with us… has made things difficult for you."

"It happened with the both of us. And don't be sorry. It was… lovely." Her cheeks color. Hawke curls her fingers to keep from reaching for her. "Really lovely," she repeats quietly. Hawke bites her tongue. Merrill shakes her head gently. "Um—but what about you? Do you still have Hightown women everywhere?"

"Not everywhere. And not just women. I'm afraid that since things… ended between us, I've become something of a slattern. Aveline would be shocked." Aveline's already disappointed. Hawke hates how Aveline's disappointment feels. She's probably taken more lovers than Isabela. She's sure of it. It wasn't a problem until the joy began wearing thin. Why do it? Why keep doing it? The Champion of Kirkwall? She's rubbish. Empty, lonely rubbish. Hawke rubs her forehead again before tracing the rim of the cup. Everything’s a mess. "I'm sorry about how things happened between us."

"What do you mean? Do you mean… all throughout the years or… what happened when… she was gone?"

"I'm not sure. Both?" She stares into the teacup as if hoping to get answers. None reveal themselves. "Look, Merrill—I know how I've behaved towards you before but actually… you're a good person. You have many wonderful qualities. It's just—sometimes I get my head so wrapped around something…" or someone, "that I forget… or don't see everything else. I judged you for who you were and not by your actions… that wasn't fair." Isn't it how mages are judged every day? Is it not why mages are persecuted so? "Someday someone will be lucky to have you." She dares a glance at her. "You deserved better than me, anyway."

Hawke looks at her. She thinks of Isabela who returned seemingly only to mess with her life. Isabela beckons Hawke but the moment Hawke shows any interest she'll likely return to her old tricks, her old habits or not wanting her, of screwing around. Hawke doesn't want that. Why chase for something someone can never give when someone else has provided it so effortlessly, so freely?

"Could I have ever had someone like you?" Merrill leans forward, curious as a kitten, chin resting on her hand, hair having fallen over her eyes.

Hawke thinks to lie to her. She isn't sure if lying or honesty would be kinder. She still isn't sure when she speaks and tells her the truth. "Yes. You could have had me."

Merrill sits back down. She laces her hands and stares at them for a long time. "Do you know how difficult it is for someone like me to have friends? It wasn't always the way it is with you and me now. Isabela has been the only one to ever care for me. She babies me sometimes, I know and so does Varric. But Isabela always made me feel as if… I were important. As if I mattered."

"You do matter."

"And before that I only had Mahariel and then Mahariel left and. She's gone." Her fingers nervously touch her ear, her eyes half-closed at the memory. "Creators, it's been years now. I have to accept it." She takes a breath. "A lover is a body. Isabela always said that. I never believed it but I wanted to. Friends are more difficult to have than lovers. I think so."

"Me too."

"That's all you were supposed to be. Just… a way to pass the loneliness. It gets cold in here in the winter. And coming home to an empty home over and over again… It's hard," she whispers. There's a long silence. "But you know." Hawke grits her jaw, shifting her eyes. Yes. She knows. "And she was gone. It got away from me. You and me and this. That," she corrects. "It wasn't supposed to…"

Hawke covers Merrill's hand with her own; she kisses her. Merrill's lips move softly against hers. Their lips part. For one fleeting moment there is nothing but flushed feeling. Hawke's fingers brush tentatively along Merrill's scarf and then she's pushed back. Hawke bows her head. "Lovers can be friends, too," she mutters. She's embarrassed and stung.

"You're confusing me." Merrill says. "Please go."

Hawke stands slowly. "Sorry." She realizes she's apologized more in one conversation than she has in all the years she has known her combined. She looks at her but doesn't know what it is she means to say and doesn't know if she's very sorry. Is she being selfish? Is she thinking clearly? She starts to go but stops. "Meredith wants me to hunt loose apostates."

"Are you starting with me?" Merrill asks. Hawke's eyes narrow gently. Merrill shakes her head quickly, seeing Hawke's face. "No. I didn't mean… sorry. It was a joke. I know you wouldn't do that. I know that now."

"What should I do? She thinks they're blood mages. She says that."

"You're asking me?" There's a beat. "That's funny."

"Why?" Hawke waits but Merrill doesn't look at her. "You confuse things for me, too. Do you think any of this is easy for me?" She shakes her head and leaves.

**16b**

 

Aveline's home is simple but cozy. It's different from Merrill's rundown, cold home and Hawke's sprawling mansion. It's been years since Isabela visited Hawke's place. She isn't against breaking in. She's breaking into Aveline's home now. But she knows now what that would do. Her relationship with Hawke—Maker, she can't even call it that anymore, is non-existent. They're just people who know each other. If Hawke had rage for her she'd be reassured. Hawke has nothing for her. They haven't spoken since Isabela kissed her.

Isabela pushes it out of her thoughts. It used to be easier to forget her. Now she's all she can think about. She should focus on her ship. On Castillon who's still trying to bloody kill her. That's more important. Not Hawke.

Isabela creeps through the home, drawn by the inviting smells of delicious food cooking in the kitchen and warm light. Aveline stands in front of the kitchen sink, doing dishes. Her head is held high; her back is strong. Does Aveline have any pull with Hawke? Yes, probably. Does she think Hawke can do better? She'd be right.

Isabela steps into the kitchen. "Ser Man-Hands in an apron. Now I've seen everything. Who knew that Donnic could tame the beast?"

Aveline nearly jumps out of her skin. She turns from the sink to look at her. Her freckles look to stand out more, green eyes glinting dangerously in annoyance—but something more, Isabela sees it though Aveline tries to hide it. Amusement. "Maker, almighty Isabela. How the void did you get in here?" Her dark look is enough to end a person.

Isabela smiles and comes closer, tugging at the end of her apron. "Oh, look, it's laced and everything. Why Aveline—have you discovered that you're a woman?" She lets it go. "What are you cooking? Can I have some?"

"This is for the dinner party," Aveline tells her. Isabela nods and smiles. Oh, right. "You know, the dinner parties I keep inviting you to and you keep skipping." She slaps Isabela's hand away when she reaches for a pot lid. "Why are you here anyway? Have you decided to join us at long last?"

"Oh, you know me, I'm not really the partying type." Isabela says. Aveline looks at her skeptically. "All right. That was a lie but it was a rather obvious one. Nothing to pat yourself on the back for. Dinner parties aren't really _parties_. They're boring," she says with a dreadful sigh, "and if I'm not getting anything out of it why should I bother coming? I'm not interested in talk with all you do-gooder types."

"You're as selfish as ever, I see," Aveline shakes her head at her, "but really, Isabela, I think you're trying too hard. It all used to come much more naturally to you, didn't it? I haven't had you arrested in weeks. Am I to believe you've become a law-abiding citizen?" Isabela laughs and pulls herself to a sitting on a counter. "Wipe that off when you get down. I don't want to be passing diseases to my guests."

Isabela rolls her eyes. "Will you ever tire of those jokes?"

"Not until you prove me wrong," she smiles. She moves a cutting board over to the kitchen table and begins cutting carrots. Isabela thinks of Leandra. She'd hoped to cook more with her. Is it pathetic to miss a woman she barely knew? What must it be like to have a mother like that and then lose her? She considers herself lucky. She won't cry over whatever happens to her mother. "What have you been doing with yourself? I see you at the Hanged Man."

"I do live there."

"But I haven't heard of you at the Blooming Rose."

"That's only because I've ducked Donnic whenever he's there." Isabela smiles when Aveline shoots her a glare. "I'm getting by," she says. "What's there to say?" Yes, she still runs girls now and then and has her small operations. Nothing grand. She doesn't want to draw Castillon's attention. She hasn't had the spirit for much of anything.

"There's a lot to say." She cuts down the carrots quickly and with frightening efficiency. "For starters… why are you back? Don't get me wrong—it's good to see you again. And I'll butcher you if you repeat this but Kirkwall was dull without you."

"You do have a soft spot for me. Ah, I knew it," she nods knowingly, "I knew it."

"Three years you were gone. With hardly a word. You never told anyone you were coming back. Suddenly here you were one day." Aveline frowns gently and returns to cutting vegetables. There's a brief interruption where Donnic comes home, kisses Aveline, nods at Isabela and makes some small talk before exiting the kitchen to bathe. Isabela is ill to her stomach though she can't figure why. They seem so happy together. "You should stay for the party," Aveline commands. Isabela shakes her head. "Where was I?" she considers. "Ah, yes, your return."

"Why does everyone keep asking why I've returned? Does it occur to anyone that maybe I like Kirkwall?"

"No, it doesn't occur to us. You only ever complained before. You wanted a ship so you could leave but you left without your own ship. Are there no ships elsewhere? You may be a slattern, Isabela, but you're clever. If you wanted a ship, you could have a ship. Anywhere else. It isn't as if you have your scruples to get in the way," Aveline grouses. Isabela smiles faintly. "But here you are. I can't make it out."

Isabela shrugs. "I missed Varric."

"Varric?" Chop, chop, chop. "You two were always friendly." She picks up the cutting board, opens a pot lid and slides the carrots in before taking an onion with her to the table. "How are things with Merrill? You two haven't been spending as much time together as I expected."

"We spend time together outside of the Hanged Man."

"And at the Hanged Man you're awkward around each other for old times' sake?" She cuts the onion forcefully in half and looks at her. "I don't buy it."

"I don't really care what you buy."

"What's going on?" Aveline sets the knife aside and looks at her.

"My, my Aveline. How things change. There is no crime afoot and you're still so curious. If you're going to interrogate me shouldn't you tie me to a chair or cuff me? Maybe…spank me a little?" She grins. Aveline glowers. "I could get Donnic, if you're opposed. You have to make it fun for me."

"Try it. I only need a kitchen knife to gut you." Aveline picks up the knife, waves it at her and begins to chop the onion. "If you're going to be in my kitchen you should at least answer some questions. Or bloody do something."

"Oh, fine," Isabela says exasperated. She goes to her, snatches the knife from her hands and pushes her aside. "I'll bloody cut your sodding onions. But I want a bowl of food to go. I'm not in the habit of doing things for nothing, you know."

"Yes, I do." Aveline goes to the stove, picking up a wooden spoon and stirring the various food. "Out with it. What's going on with you and Merrill?"

"Nothing," Isabela snaps. "Nothing really." She presses the knife to the onion and pushes down. She chops the onion and then begins to mince the rings. "Did you know about her and Hawke?"

"Know about her and Hawke what?" Aveline asks. She turns to look at her. Isabela shakes her head. "Her and Hawke what?" she asks again. Isabela chops. "Are you telling me—no. That's ridiculous. They hate each other." She stops. "They used to hate each other. Bleeding Maker, Hawke." She swears. "Since when? I had no idea. Who else knows? Why am I always the last one to bleeding know?"

"You're the City-Guard captain. Shouldn't you suss these things out?" She bites her tongue. Aveline waits impatiently. Isabela continues quietly. "I think you and I are the only ones to know outside of them. Don't say anything. It isn't a big deal."

"I remember when you would ridicule them both for it." Aveline says. Isabela cuts. "Well. How do you feel about it?"

Isabela shrugs. "They're free to do what they want. It's got nothing to do with me."

"That's true. You  _were_  gone for three years. You don't have a right to be angry. You didn't say goodbye. To any of us. They were a wreck without you."

Isabela nods faintly. It's true. She hates how reasonable Aveline is. But she's grateful this time. What's the point in being angry or hurt? She doesn't have a right to any of those feelings. She left. She decided that they weren't worth staying for. She decided that Hawke was not worth changing for. Yes. She chose herself over Hawke. It was the right decision. Yes. It was. No matter how she has questioned it.

"Hawke has been rutting half of Hightown." Aveline says. "She's a bigger trollop than you are. But this is different. She's never made it a secret of who she sleeps with but Merrill. She never mentioned Merrill." She considers. "Is it still happening?"

She mentions everybody but not Merrill? Is it because she's ashamed? Or is it because Merrill meant something more? "It doesn't matter. They say no."

"And if it was?"

"I don't want to think about that." The words slip out before she even knows she'd been thinking them. Her jaw squares and she drops the knife. "Screw this. I have better things to do. Forget the food. Forget this. I'm off to a real party."

Aveline's jaw drops. Isabela ignores her and exits the kitchen. She hears Aveline's footsteps behind her but doesn't stop or turn. She's almost at the door when Aveline snatches her arm, grip tight. "Maker. I don't believe it. You came back for her, didn't you? You came back for Hawke."

"Let go of me," she rips her arm away and flings the door open. Cool night air rushes in. Hawke stands there, tall and exquisite, icy eyes curious, flicking from her to Aveline and then back. Isabela tries to think of something to say, anything to say, a thank-you for her healed arm if nothing more but she is wordless.

Hawke steps aside to let her through. Isabela looks at her as she moves past. Hawke follows her movement before turning to Aveline. "Something smells delicious," she says. Isabela walks faster, hearing Hawke's voice carried in the wind. "Have I arrived too early?"

Whatever Aveline's response is Isabela doesn't hear it. She doesn't want to hear it. She needs a stiff drink. She needs to forget.

She had not known such hurt could exist.

**16c**

 

Hawke has become accustomed to the first flush of people that gravitate towards her at the start of any social gathering. Where she had once been awkward she is now accommodating. She is firm when their talks steer too closely to party tricks and she is perfectly willing to slap away a stray hand. Aveline's crowds are mercifully better behaved. Nor do they tend to be half as impressed with her as others are. Hawke wonders if it's Aveline's influence.

She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. It's growing out again. How much time has passed since she cut it? She drinks wine. Aveline rolls her eyes at her and her small crowd. That's more like Aveline, anyway. Earlier she'd appeared distracted, even flustered for reasons that Hawke couldn't identify.

Hawke's eyes sweep over the room at the laughing city-guards, Aveline and Donnic. Varric isn't in attendance, neither are Fenris and Anders. Hawke hasn't seen any of them for a while. She hardly sees anybody.

Hawke wonders why Isabela was in Aveline's home. She didn't ask. If she doesn't say Isabela's name, if she doesn't speak of her, maybe her hold over her will loosen. The years in which she felt nothing were easier. She isn't sure what it is that has recently surfaced. Is it something for Merrill? Is it only her lingering feelings for Isabela?

Hawke finishes her goblet of wine. Merrill is making her way through the party-guests, looking as if she's murmuring apologies along the way. Hawke smiles faintly. Merrill stops by Aveline, looking to make an exclamation before picking up a few cubes of cheese. She glances in Hawke's direction and freezes. Aveline follows her gaze, looks at Hawke and frowns.

Hawke feels as if she's been caught in her knickers. What the void has she done now? She excuses herself to the guests milled around her and moves to Merrill and Aveline.

"Merrill. I didn't know you were planning on attending." Merrill looks up at her with her large, green eyes, red coloring her cheeks. Aveline's scowl grows darker. "Erm—what have I done now?" Aveline takes hold of her arm and yanks her away from the party, throwing her into what appears to be a dark bedroom. Hawke looks around at the bed, the bureaus with the simple belongings, hers and Donnic's. She's never shared a home with anyone but her mother. Will she ever? Or will she die old and alone? If something in Kirkwall doesn't kill her first. She doesn't know which is preferable. "Aveline," she smiles, "what would Donnic think?"

"Be quiet."

"All right. I officially have no idea what I've bloody done to incur your wrath."

"What are you doing?"

"You dragged me in here."

"With Merrill!" Aveline hisses as if the accusation were too scandalous to say aloud. Hawke is quiet. Her face heats. "Maker, it is true. I didn't think to believe it but Isabela was right."

"Isabela?" Has she been running around Kirkwall talking about her and Merrill? She's always liked to gossip. Never about them, of course, that was their dirty little secret for months on end. "What the void does she have to do with this?"

"It's one thing for you to drag your Hightown hussies into your bed but Merrill? Maker, Hawke, I thought you didn't like her. Are you toying with her?"

Toying with her? What are these accusations from Aveline and Isabela? She tires of them. "You don't know what you're talking about," Hawke takes a step towards her but Aveline doesn't budge. "What right do you have to question me? My personal affairs are my own."

"I need to know where you stand, Hawke. You're my  _friend_. More than that, you're  _family_  to me." The words would make her happy at any other time. Aveline's eyes are bright. A current of anger strains her words. Hawke remembers how Carver's voice would shake when he got angry at her. "I don't want to watch you keep screwing up your life."

"Oh, I'm screwing it up, am I? How?" She shakes her head and steps away. "Why does any of this matter to you? Suddenly it's important who I'm shagging?" She stops— "It isn't Merrill, if you must know. Maybe before but." She shakes her head. "All you need to know is that anyone I could bloody care about romantically doesn't want me. Merrill doesn't. Isabela never did. Blast, I was such an idiot!" she paces. Why did she come to this stupid party? She was meant to relax. Now she has all of this thrust in her face. She needs no reminder of her many failures. "Throughout the years everybody bloody warned me about her, you did, Varric, Fenris,  _everybody_  and I didn't listen. How arrogant I was! To think I could change somebody so set in her ways. She had others, every time I became comfortable there would be somebody else." She hates Aveline's pitying look. "And the stupid thing is I didn't even want to change her. Or maybe I gave up or decided it didn't matter. I just wanted her to bloody love me and be with me." She stops, the emotion from her voice dying away. She laughs bitterly. "Do you know how Isabela's face would change to terror the moment I even suggested we be something more than a fuck? That I might bloody give a damn about her? Merrill would do anything for her. She won't allow herself to be with me, even if Isabela threw her to the side as easily as she threw me. Is it so easy to throw someone away?" It occurs to Hawke that maybe others don't consider her worth keeping.

Aveline waffles in her place. "Hawke, I'm sorry. I didn't know it was that bad. You always… well, you never bloody shared that with anybody. You were with her for years before any of us even had a clue!" Hawke shuffles. "Why were you with her if it was so bad?"

"Who else wanted me?" She shakes her head. "I loved her. I thought it could get better. I thought…if I was patient." She bites her tongue.

"You've always tortured yourself." Aveline lets the words fade. "What about Merrill? You hated her. I heard the vile things that you said. But now this. Why were you with her?"

Hawke sits on the bed. "I was waiting for Isabela. I waited for years without anyone. I wouldn't even allow kisses." Her jaw trembles. She allows a minute to pass. Aveline sits next to her. "Before any of those Hightown girls there was Merrill. We missed her. How did you deal with Wesley?" Hawke puts a hand over her face. "I'd fall apart." Her voice is a whisper.

"You're strong. What you have survived—"

"It doesn't matter." She doesn't want Aveline's comfort. She thinks of Aveline's wedding day at the Viscount's Keep. She thinks of Merrill in that office. She tries not to think of it. She tries not to think of the nights when Merrill pressed against her and said nothing. It was comfortable. "Merrill let me closer than Isabela ever did. It scared me how much I wanted it, came to crave it. So I took Hightown nobles for lovers. She knew." Aveline nods. "Then Isabela came back and Merrill ended it. Just like that as if it were bloody nothing. It's so easy to throw people away. But I've done the same. Do you know how many tear stained letters I get from the women of Hightown?" And angry letters from the men. It's difficult to look into a mirror. "I burn them."

"Why didn't you talk to me?"

"I didn't want you to know who I was. You're everything I should be." She takes a breath. "In the beginning I told myself that it didn't matter how I survived, as long as I survived, as long as my family was taken care of. They made me a better person. Now I'm wealthy beyond imagining and who the void cares? There's nothing noble about me. Maker, Aveline. You have no idea how I envy your life with Donnic." Aveline's hand lights on her back. "When I was younger I never thought I'd be with anybody. Not seriously. An apostate never gets the life they want. It would mean living a lie or constantly being on the run like my parents. I thought meeting people who weren't bothered by that part of me—would make it easy. Would make it possible but I was wrong. I’m always wrong."

"Not always." She smiles wryly. "How do you feel about Merrill?"

Merrill. A blood mage. What's happened to her? Has she opened her eyes at last or has she lost her mind? "I don't know. We get on." They were happy.

"What about Isabela?"

"Don't bloody ask about her."

"I'm asking." Aveline says. Hawke wants wine. She tries to say the words but can't. Her eyes burn. She blinks them until they clear. She shakes her head. "Maker, Hawke. She renders you speechless?" She sighs. "You're a lost cause." She doesn't speak right away. "Well, I'm not one to tell you what to do." Hawke looks at her skeptically. "Fine, mock me. You've always been intent on doing whatever the void you wanted. If you want Merrill, fight for Merrill. If you want Isabela…"

"I don't want her," she snaps. "I can't trust her. She's screwed me too many times."

"I thought that's what you liked about her." Aveline says with another small grin. Hawke glares at her before smiling faintly. There's nothing to smile about. "The Hawke I know doesn't give up. Even if her mind is set on something incredibly stupid. Hawke… blast. I shouldn't say this. I shouldn't tell you. But if I don't tell you…" She stands and paces.

Hawke looks at her curiously. "What?"

"It's about Isabela. Well, there's no use dancing around it, is there?" She stops and looks at her. "She's here because of you. She came back because of you, Hawke." Hawke stares at her. "And this business with you and Merrill bugs her. I know, I know, she's a hypocrite but when has she ever been jealous of anything? She could have gone anywhere in the world. She returned here."

"Because she's fleeing Castillon," Hawke says cuttingly, getting to her feet. "Because she knows that I'm stupid enough to help her out in a scrape. That doesn't have anything to do with feelings. I'm not sure she even has them."

Aveline glares. "She didn't say it, exactly. Ninety-nine percent of what she says is bullshit but I keep an eye on her—same as I do with all of my people. She hasn't been at the Rose. I haven't heard of her whoring around. I haven't thrown her in the brig in weeks—some of the prisoners miss her. Maybe she's changing—whether she wants to or not. Earlier, she couldn't look me in the eye. She ran away when I pressed her about you. Whatever her feelings, she came back here for you. Hawke, you've been miserable for years. You think I don't understand why you do the stupid things that you do? I want you to be happy. Merrill or Isabela—it doesn't matter to me. Andraste's ass—I like them both. But if you're going to torment yourself about them—you should have a good look at all the cards on the table. That's all I'll say about it." She raises her hands as if they've been wiped clean.

Hawke stands, in a fog. What's she supposed to think now? Is she to believe any of it? What's she supposed to do? Maybe nothing. To the void with Merrill. To the void with Isabela. Maybe she should leave Kirkwall. It's easier to be a coward. Let someone else be the Champion of Kirkwall. "I should go," she says blankly.

"So soon? Have I— are you all right?"

"Fine. Thank you," she mutters. She exits the room into the sea of people. Everything swims as if she's had too much to drink. There's no sign of Merrill. Hawke exits the home, lost.

She wanders Lowtown aimlessly. She thinks of going to the Hanged Man. She thinks of visiting Merrill. She decides against both and begins the walk to Hightown. She finds them both sitting there on the steps, engaged in quiet conversation. Hawke stops. Thinks of turning back but they see her. She has to get home somehow. She walks towards them.

"Aveline's 'party' drives another attendant away," Isabela says cheerfully. Hawke looks at her and Isabela smiles, before her eyes flick elsewhere. "First me, then Merrill."

Hawke doesn't know if Isabela's words are meant to provoke.

"I didn't know anyone," Merrill explains, "and it felt all too peculiar without you or Isabela… or—or even Aveline," she adds quickly. "I found Isabela… so." Her words dwindle and then she's silent staring in another direction. Hawke wonders if anyone is capable of looking at her. "You had so many people around you—I hadn't seen you at a party before. Not since you've become Champion, I suppose. There was the wedding," she adds too quietly. Their gazes falter. "You're very popular."

"I'm sure," Isabela says with a glimmer of a smile.

Hawke feels panicked. "Only because they don't know me." Merrill laces her fingers. Isabela bows her head with another smile. Hawke takes one step up the stairs between them, the only way of moving forward.

"Won't you sit down?" Isabela asks. "Merrill and I could use the company. Yours will do."

"I won't intrude."

"Don't be silly," Isabela says. "It's no bother at all. We're all close friends here."

Merrill can only look at her and then look away. Isabela keeps the same smile on her lips. There's something more to her. Nerves. Same as Merrill. Hawke looks between them. She sits in the middle, tense, fingers curled nervously into fists, resting on her knees.

"Have you—have you figured out the matter with the blood mages?" Merrill stammers. "With the Knight-Commander. We never," she takes a breath, "we never had a proper conversation."

Hawke feels Isabela shift beside her. "Oh, I'm not sure yet," she tells her. "I'm still not sure what to do about anything. It's all—confusing." She feels Isabela's hand, over her fist, pushing her fingers, straight and flat. If Hawke doesn't look, it's almost as if their hands are twined. The imagining makes her heart pound. She pulls her hand away from Isabela, hoping that Merrill hasn't noticed, not wanting to make matters more awkward. She rises. "I'll let you know what—what I do," she tells Merrill. "Maybe—if it's all right, we can talk about it some more?"

"Oh. Oh, yes. Yes," she nods.

"I'll—be better," Hawke mutters to her. Merrill's eyes lower. Hawke doesn't know how to apologize again. She looks at Isabela. The women are complete opposites. Isabela's eyes are daring and bold. She's rarely seen any softness to her. Aveline swears it's there. Merrill looks frail and vulnerable but can be hard as diamonds. Where's her head? Damn it, Aveline. "Isabela—…" She bites back the words. "How's…the arm?"

"It's good," she gets to her feet. "Thanks. How's yours?"

Still mildly scarred and burned. "Fine." She says.

"Did ah… did Aveline say anything to you?"

Hawke stares at her. "No. Nothing. Unless you speak of recipes. She did tell me some of that." Isabela shakes her head. "Was she meant to tell me anything?"

"No," Isabela shakes her head. She laughs nervously. "You know how she is."

Yes, she does. It reassures her. Aveline is solid. Not dull as others would suggest. Reliable. Strong. "She means well." She glances at Merrill, who has pulled her scrawny legs to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. Her eyes linger on Isabela. Hawke's surprised when Isabela can hold the gaze when she cannot. "I should leave you two. It was good to see you." She doesn't face either of them as she says it. She leaves them behind, more confused than ever.


	17. Chapter 17

The blood mage splatters onto the wall. Drops of blood spray along Hawke's face. For the first time in years she remembers that she's dangerous, that blood mages are, that they're all monsters.

Hawke walks closer, stoops, puts her fingers to the neck of the elf. It's snapped. There's no pulse. She closes her eyes, exhales slowly. Meredith will be pleased. In some ways, she is. The man was garbage—he murdered his wife to fuel his lust for power.

Hawke hears Merrill's shaky breath. Varric mutters a swear, some comment about a blood bath. Isabela touches her shoulder. "You had no choice."

"There's always a choice," she mutters bitterly and gets to her feet. She wipes the back of her hand along her face, streaks it red. "He made his. I made mine." She looks at Merrill. "Are you all right?" she nods and makes an excuse to go. Varric follows after her.

Hawke takes in the bodies littered around the alienage courtyard. What a senseless waste of life. Would it have happened if she'd chased them? Or would they have retreated to live secluded, peaceful lives?

"Running off to your master with the news?" Isabela asks. Hawke stops midstep and looks at her. "Knight-Commander Meredith has a tight leash around your neck. And you're not even having any fun with it. She doesn't take you for walks." Hawke grits her teeth. "You know I'm right."

"I know I killed a mass murderer. I don't care whose behest I did it at. A threat is removed."

"I'll say." She looks at the elf's crumpled body. "The poor sod didn't stand a chance, did he? How long has it been since you've killed anyone? From the look in your eyes—I'd say you'd forgotten."

"I'll forget this one, too."

"You won't forget. No matter how you may want to. I can read your eyes, Hawke. You're not half the liar you pretend to be." Isabela covers Hawke's bloodied fingers clenched tightly around the magic staff, twining them as best she can. "It takes one to know one."

Hawke thinks of Aveline's words. Did Isabela really come back for her? Would she ever admit it? Would it make a difference? Should it make a difference? Maker.

"You admit to being a liar?"

"Honesty doesn't require creativity. And I do so love to be creative…and play and stretch, twist and bend," her thumb grazes her flesh tenderly. "Hunting for the truth is its own reward. What's the fun when it's freely given? Come with me to the Hanged Man. Wash all this blood away. Your Hightown nobles would be appalled. I promise to behave."

But her whispers promise anything but good behavior.

x

Hawke slips beneath the water, her eyes open. The tub is small, cramped, chipped stained, old. The light in the small bathroom is dim, filled with oily shadows. This is not the opulence she is accustomed to. This is the dinginess of Lowtown. She rises from the water, pushing the hair back from her face.

Blood is caked beneath her nails. She wipes at it, trying to get it off. Scrubs at her hands with the small bar of soap that sits on the floor. Isabela is in the bedroom. She hasn't come in, she hadn't offered to strip her. She has behaved. Hawke thinks she's grateful. She shouldn't want more. She doesn't.

"Are you all right in there?" Isabela calls out. "You haven't woefully drowned yourself, have you?"

"Not woefully," Hawke calls back.

"Your clothes are bloody. Getting redressed will defeat the purpose of bathing," her muffled voice returns.

Hawke smiles absently, against her will. "Then find me something else to wear."

"I don't have anything so fine as you deserve, O' Champion of Kirkwall, noble of Hightown." Isabela's voice predictably drips with sarcasm.

"It sounds to me like you're itching for an excuse to be lazy."

"I'm itching for something, but not excuses or laziness," Isabela says. Hawke looks at her hands, satisfied that the blood is gone. "Why don't you come out here? I might have something for you after all."

Hawke stands, wipes at her face. Finds a too small towel to wrap around her frame. She sees her reflection in the mirror and hardly recognizes herself. Her hair falls to her shoulders. Have her eyes always been so pale? She touches the scar across her cheeks and nose and misses Carver.

She tentatively opens the door. Isabela is leaning against the wall, a dress in her hands; she looks sidelong at Hawke and smiles. "I thought about taking my dress off as an offering—but something told me you'd get your knickers in a twist about it."

"I'm not wearing any to get into a twist."

Isabela blinks, smiling with surprise. "I can still take it off."

Hawke contains her smile. "As lovely as a view as that would be… I'll use my head just this once and pass."

"Spoilsport." She says with a roll of her eyes. Hawke takes the dress from her, lifting it to look at. The towel starts to slip away. She fumbles. Isabela catches it before it falls. Her warm fingers press beneath the material, against her skin. "See. I can behave." Hawke holds the air in her lungs. Isabela's eyes on hers are more intimate than any touch. "But I don't have to."

Hawke curses herself for coming here. She should have known better. She ought to have known she wasn't strong enough, removed enough. The bed looms behind Isabela. Not that they've ever needed a bed. They've never even needed a surface. She hasn't taken a lover in weeks. They bore her. Would Isabela bore her? She never did before. That was a long time ago.

Isabela steps closer. "What are you thinking? I can always tell when you're thinking. You get this line…" she trails her thumb along her eyebrow.

"I'm thinking I should dress and get out of here."

"I'm not stopping you."

Hawke notices the red sash tied around Isabela's arm. She still has that thing after all this time. Does Isabela remember when Hawke gave it to her? Wasn't that the beginning of everything? No. It was still nothing. Isabela never let it become anything. Hawke drops the dress. Isabela's eyes go to it.

With her eyes away from her, Hawke feels as if she's been released from whatever spell kept her immobilized. Hawke fingers the red sash, undoing it, clutching it in her hand. Isabela turns sharply to her. Her face is unreadable, not because it is free of expression but because Hawke is unable to recognize the emotion on her face. She's never made it in her presence.

"You're taking it back?" Isabela asks. Her voice is but a murmur.

"Turn around."

Isabela looks at her hesitantly, questioningly. She turns her back to her. Hawke lifts the sash, lifting it over Isabela's eyes, tying it into place, a blindfold. Isabela's breathing grows heavier. Hawke sweeps the hair from Isabela's shoulders, draws in her scent. With a hand placed delicately beneath Isabela's chin, holding her into place, she trails her lips along her neck. Her flesh is smooth. A fire stirs in Hawke.

Isabela sighs unsteadily.

x

Her skin is warm. She knows the feel of sun on her flesh. It must be morning but everything is black. Her fingers lift to her face, pulling off the makeshift blindfold. She's naked and alone in bed.

She sits up. Looks around. There's no sign of Hawke. The towel is on the floor beside the bathroom, so is the dress. So is the black corset. Hawke removed it with painfully slow precision. She did things to her, new things. Isabela hadn't known there was anything left to learn. She learned that Hawke learned them from others.

She sighs, closes her eyes and falls back on the bed. Balls. Was it a mistake? Did Hawke use her and throw her away? And if she did, would she care? For one night, she belonged to Hawke. They were close again, if only physically. But Hawke said nothing, even when Isabela spoke. Isabela saw nothing, her sight limited to the exploration of her fingers, the proximity of Hawke's breath on her stomach and the inside of her thighs. She kissed her so deep. Isabela felt it all but saw nothing.

Is this what Hawke felt like so many years ago? What is she doing now? A Hightown woman? Merrill? Bathing herself clean of her touch? Isabela exhales softly into her pillow. She wants Hawke back, in her room, to fuck her, kiss her, talk to her, talk with her.

"Maker," she mutters, embarrassed at the thoughts, covering her face. "I'm losing it."

x

"You're filthy." Knight-Commander Meredith tells Hawke, wrinkling her nose. She stands behind the desk in the study, hard eyes cutting into her. "You're a noble and Champion of Kirkwall. Is this the best way to represent yourself?"

"I murder mages for coin, for you and the Chantry, for Kirkwall. Is this not the dress of a Champion? The mark of my triumphs and righteousness?" She picks a piece of skin that she hadn't noticed on the sleeve of her jacket and throws it onto Meredith's desk. "We need not hide what is right."

Meredith curls her lip. "I do not like your tone."

"It seems you rarely do."

"Do not behave so petulantly, Champion, it is not befitting of you." She takes a seat. "I wonder if you've forgotten that it was a blood mage who butchered your mother?" She throws the words carelessly as if they carry little weight. "Whenever you have doubts of our righteousness, think of that. You have spared lives. You have spared grief with your actions. If you must wear your bloody clothing to remember that then do so." She picks up a quill, looks at the paper in front of her and then to Hawke. "Are we going to have a problem? Need I remind you that you are free at my discretion?"

"Thank you for the reminder," Hawke rises. "Huon is dead. It's what you wanted. When I've butchered the others you want 'captured' I'll come back for you."

" _What?"_

Hawke slams the door on the way out.

x

"You want me to kill you?" Hawke asks.

Isabela leans into the doorway, arms crossed tightly, chin lifted as if she weren't hearing any of it. Merrill tugs on her sleeve vestments nervously. There is something different in the air. She doesn't know if it's because Hawke has always hated her before and now she's giving her the opportunity to do what she had always threatened—kill her for the safety of others—or if it is something more. Hawke and Isabela look at one another without seeing.

"Yes," Merrill says, too distracted by her goals to pay them any more attention. How does she let herself get so distracted? It's all Hawke's fault. With her words and her eyes that confuse things, that make her think maybe she should abandon all this Eluvian business. But that's wrong. She can't. She won't turn her back on her people. And if she does, if she considers it, wouldn't it make her the monster they think she is? Her people come before everyone. They may hate her now, they may resent her success but ultimately they will reclaim their past and they will see that she was right. "I have seen what you can do. And sometimes it has terrified me. But if I… if I lose myself… and I become a… a thing—" the words lock in her throat, "I'll know that you can stop me. That you'll be able to keep the others safe."

"No."

"Hawke—"

"No," Hawke says viciously. She crosses the space between them, her tall figure looming over her, face low, intimidating and inviting in one. "I will not bloody kill you. Put this fool idea of yours out of your head."

Suddenly it feels as if nothing ever changed between them. Hawke is a woman who thinks she's some idiot girl. "I'm a blood mage," Merrill whispers tentatively.

"You're different."

"Am I?"

Isabela sighs softly from the door, as if the tedium of their conversation is too much to bear. She turns her head lazily in their direction. "You know you are, Kitten."

She doesn't like that them ganging up against her. To unite again only to unite in a cause that opposes her own? Merrill narrows her eyes. She doesn't want to be called 'Kitten'. She doesn't want to be bloody babysat by the two of them. Creators, they can hardly take care of themselves sometimes. "I'm still a blood mage, like the others you've killed. I'm asking you to help me, Hawke. Every time I've ever asked for it you've mocked me, you've told me you'd rather put me in the ground. Well here's your chance. Do you really want an abomination on your conscience?"

Hawke's eyes glisten. Her jaw trembles. Her voice is violence.  _"Fine."_


	18. Chapter 18

The storm blasts the windows to her room open. The torch on the wall goes out again. Isabela watches the warm light on Hawke's otherwise stony face disappear and be replaced by shadows. Isabela goes to the window, a sheet of frigid rain washes over her arms before she can get it closed. The storm came from nowhere. Isabela remembers the night she wrecked her ship and lost her men. If only she'd never come to Kirkwall.

If only she'd never met Hawke.

Hawke has been chilly since Isabela returned to Kirkwall, the small moments of warmth making the returning cold, starker still. Isabela spied her by the docks earlier, the waves crashing into the ships, onto the pier falling like curtains of water around Hawke. Isabela didn't know if it was some kind of magic or if it was nature. Hawke's tricky. Isabela's never been able to figure out what parts of her Hawke summons, what others are inherent.

Isabela remembers when Hawke would have easily killed Merrill.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Isabela asks.

"Talk?" The window flings open again. Hawke goes to it and stares out. Lightning forks over Hightown. Rain splashes inside. "I only came in to get out of the rain."

Isabela decides not to deliberate on the scorn in Hawke's voice and its implications, the judgments. Maybe it pisses her off. But maybe she deserves it. "You're not doing a very good job of it." Isabela shuts the window again, securing it with a flimsy, rusting hook. "I'd prefer not to flood my room." Hawke doesn't look at her. "Can you  _pretend_  to be considerate?"

"You want me to pretend?" Rain runs down her face. Anger comes close to entering her voice but never does, as if she can't be bothered to feel anything for her.

"I want you to talk to me. I mean," she starts when a wry smile pulls Hawke's lips upward, "if we're going to be trapped here in the midst of a storm and we're going to keep our clothes on." Thunder booms, rattling the window. Rain slams into it, making the outside world dark and blurry.

"I'd rather fuck than talk."

That's…unexpected. Isabela laughs dryly, maybe nervously. Years ago the frost in Hawke's eyes melted to look at her. It ripped at Isabela. She hated the blasted confusion it created in her. So she mocked Hawke, she cheated, she left. Now there's only layer after layer of ice. Hawke hasn't touched her since killing that blood mage. Hawke hasn't acted as if it even happened. "And what if I told you I didn't want that?"

"I'd call you a liar." Hawke takes her arm and presses her to the wall. Isabela feels the cold air shooting through the cracks in the window. Hawke's fingertips, warm beneath the slick of rain tease along her sides.

Isabela attempts to steady her breathing. So Hawke has called her out. Yes, she is a liar. Yes, she wants her. Hawke offers everything that Isabela has always wanted of her: a body and nothing more. Isabela frowns without knowing. "Can you really kill Merrill?" she asks, her voice faltering. She meets Hawke's eyes and can read nothing in them. She exhales when Hawke pulls her knickers down. "I don't want you to kill her."

Hawke cups her face. Isabela's eyes half-close. "Spread your legs."

Isabela doesn't know how she hears the words against the storm, when they're spoken so lowly. She complies. She hates Hawke, wants her. She's ready for her. Her eyes close, heart lurching as Hawke's fingers tease her. Warmth spreads over her. A strike of lightning floods the room with light. Isabela moves against Hawke's hand, against both of them. They're steady and contradictory. "Do you love her?" Isabela asks. Hawke brings her face close to hers, fingers slipping inside. Isabela forces herself to keep her eyes open. Hawke's lips tug into a smile, impersonal, cocky. She's pressed against her but still so far away. "Kiss me."

Hawke kisses her. Slowly. Deeply.

x

Hawke looks distracted, guilty, the way she did when she reduced Huon in the alienage to pulp against a wall. The stains are still there. Merrill wonders if Hawke looks at them and remembers why mages are feared. Does she still hate herself? For so long Merrill wasn't sure. It's only recently that she's come to the realization that Hawke's past behavior was only a manifestation for her self-loathing.

She's been reading one of the thicker tomes for hours, fingers grazing her forehead absently. Merrill sits beside her, scooting closer when a raindrop falls on her head. Merrill sighs, looking upward at the leaking roof. Hawke glances down at her spindly legs and to her face. "The rain is cold," Merrill explains.

"Shall I fix it for you?"

Merrill pretends her face isn't reddening. Hawke used to say things like that. It could be some stray piece of her vestments that she would readjust; other times Hawke would move any small obstacle in their way before taking her in her arms. And sometimes she really did fix the roof. "It will be okay," Merrill stares down at her hands. Hawke brings a hand to the back of her neck. Merrill closes her eyes. Her lip quivers. "Don't feel sorry for me. Don't ask me not to do this."

"There must be another way."

"There isn't." She opens her eyes and takes Hawke's wrist. "You denied me the Arulin'Holm. Even if you hadn't…" she releases her and stands, "I'm not sure that it would work. The demon taught me how to cleanse that shard from the Eluvian. It didn't matter in the end…" she thinks of Mahariel, "but it helped."

"The demon brought you to blood magic."

"And that's further then I ever came before," Merrill persists, ignoring her words, not wanting to listen. She cannot be persuaded. She will not forsake them. "Hawke—if your family lived and you could return their glory and history to them—

"My family does not live." Hawke stands. "I'd be satisfied in simply having them, not chasing glory or ideals. Merrill, listen to me. You are too stubborn, you are too  _proud_. Let this go. You love your clan. Return to them. They will have you. They are right to be wary. You are good Merrill but—how did that Flemeth put it? The path is never darker than when your eyes are shut."

"You don't know what she meant by that. Our eyes  _are_  shut, Hawke. We are losing who we are. Soon we'll be no different from these flat ears in the alienages. We'll have  _nothing_." Another drop of water falls on her face and she wipes it away. She leaves the living room, unable to bear her presence. Hawke follows her, steps sure and sturdy. Isabela smiles wistfully these days. But what is the point in sad smiles? Are they together again? Hawke doesn't act any differently. "Why can't you ever be on my side?"

"I  _am_. I'm trying to help you. I'm trying to care for you. Blast it, Merrill. Time after time I save the people who don't mean a damn to me. You  _matter_."

Merrill scoffs. Hawke frowns. "If I can return the past to my people then any price is worth it."

"What if I can't stop you?"

"I've seen you, Hawke. You can stop anything."

Hawke smiles weakly. "Not everything." She sighs, tugging a red ribbon loose from her arm and tying her hair up loosely. "I've killed dragons and small armies. I've killed Templars and darkspawn… you'd think I could handle an elf." She takes Merrill's chin in her hand. Merrill's breath catches in her lungs. "If I break your legs you can't climb a mountain. You'd be safe."

She trembles. "You wouldn't."

"I can. You have no idea what I'm capable of."

Hawke's eyes glisten. Then, with a small growl she tears herself away, leaving Merrill alone.

x

"You seem more contented," Aveline tells her. Isabela continues to skim through the many notices on Aveline's desk, looking to see if there are any warrants out for her arrest or any of her girls hidden beneath, checking to see if there are reports of Castillon and any of his men. She thinks Aveline would tell her but she isn't sure. Aveline likes to prioritize, not quite in the manner that Isabela would. "What are you looking for? I know better than to leave out the things you want to see."

"And you presume you can keep things hidden? You just want to make this fun for me."

"I don't have time to play games with you," Aveline grimaces and takes a seat on her office chair. She sighs, tiredly. "Kirkwall never rests, does it? This business with the chantry and the Templars is getting out of hand. Knight-Commander Meredith is a menace." Isabela nods absently. "What does Hawke think?"

"You're asking me?"

"Well, why not? You're rutting again, aren't you?"

"Did she say that?" Isabela waits. Aveline shakes her head. "Well… rutting isn't talking." They've scarcely done any of that. Isabela  _tries_  to have conversations and Hawke, in return, touches her until Isabela forgets that she wanted to talk in the first place. She sighs. "I don't know what's going on with her."

"Have you told her how you feel?"

"I really don't know what you mean," she says. Aveline sits up, opens her mouth, freckles popping brightly in indignation. "No," she mutters. "Drop it." She runs a hand through her hair and takes a seat across from Aveline. She can't get settled. "Hawke doesn't want to talk. Hawke doesn't want any part of that."

"I don't believe it."

"Believe it. Anyway, you got the wrong idea. So did I," as it turned out. What idea is that anyway? Aveline… is melodramatic and romantic. And Hawke, for all she knows, is in love with Merrill. As for herself… she's only confused. That's all. "Has Hawke said anything to you about Sundermount? Every time I try to talk to her about it… I get… distracted." Aveline rolls her eyes. "I'm serious."

"This is you trying to be serious?"

"I can't do it as well as you can. You've got all those muscles; you couldn't lighten up even if you tried."

Aveline is skeptical. "All Hawke has said is that she's going. A few years ago I imagine she would have jumped at the chance. As things stand, I think she's delaying matters."

"For obvious reasons," Isabela says with a small shake of her head. "I adore Merrill but her ideas have always been…slightly unconventional. And before you start, I cause mischief for coin. I don't try to summon demons." She considers Hawke at the Wounded Coast. It appears that it's only recently that Hawke has begun to use magic again. What does she think when she uses it? That she uses it for the Knight-Commander? Hawke once swore she never would again and broke her word not long after to save her from the Arishok. Then, from what she understands from Varric, she set it aside again. "Who wants to summon demons, anyway? Massacres should be reserved for people stupid enough to cross us."

"The worry isn't in summoning the demon—it's in becoming one."

"It isn't what she's trying to do."

"But it  _is_  a possibility or she wouldn't have asked Hawke what she's asked. Remember when Hawke would deny her everything?"

Isabela smiles grimly. "Those were the days. Balls. I don't want her to do this. Either of them." She runs her fingers along the red leather of the chair before standing. "If we go to Sundermount…and something happens… well. We can't let it happen. We'll… I don't know. There must be some way to stop it."

"The only way to stop it is to get Merrill to change her mind. We both know how likely that is. She likes to cling to stupid ideas. The fact of the matter is that if Merrill becomes an abomination she will need to be put down. I won't stop Hawke from doing that. I'll help her. It's what Merrill would want. It's what would be  _right_."

Isabela remains quiet and wonders why she returned to Kirkwall.

x

Hawke is cinching the slip around her waist when she spots Isabela. She ceases action, the robe hanging open loosely. It's late and she's just finished bathing. Isabela glances at the vanity table and the two glasses of half drunk wine and back to her. Hawke wonders if she's lost some part of herself that renders her unable to read expressions or if Isabela has gained something that wasn't there before. "I wasn't expecting company."

"It looks like you've already had it. Or are you still drinking for two? Or three?"

The corners of Hawke's lips pull up gently. She doesn't drink as often as she once did. Isabela's absence coupled with all her company throughout the years helped some. Along with the startling recognition that her hands began to shake when she went without for too long. She has gradually weaned herself down to appropriate levels. If she can control her damnable magic she can most certainly control that. "Think that if you like."

"Who was here?"

"None of your business." There it is again. The flicker of something on Isabela's face before it's gone again. Did Isabela make those expressions before or has Hawke become better at reading faces? If you see so many in so many different ways it becomes easier to decipher. "It's late."

"Do Champions keep early hours? I never thought you did."

"I'm not your average Champion." She pulls the robe closed, tying the sash into place. She looks at her journal on the desk. She wonders if Isabela has been reading it. No doubt she has. She hasn't written in it for years. No doubt Isabela only found some old affection that Hawke once had. Hawke has tried not to read it, not wanting to remember how earnestly and foolishly she had once loved. She looks at Isabela who has her back to her and wanders the room, no doubt looking for something to take. She's always taken without asking, blasted thief. "Is it Castillon?" Isabela looks back at her. "Is he here? Is that why you're here? Do I need to go get my shiny armor? I just bathed and everything. It seems I can only bathe in blood these days."

"What's it like, getting back into the swing of killing?"

"Too easy." She grimaces. "Uncle Gamlen says that Mother would be proud of all I've accomplished. That all of them would be. But what I have I accomplished besides spilling enough blood for a river? It's easy to be a killer." Isabela narrows her eyes gently and Hawke frowns, waving it away. "Why are you here?" she asks again, eager to get away from any topics close to her heart.

"There was a time when you didn't ask why I visited."

"Yes. Well long ago. Now I know better than to think you don't want something." Isabela laughs, a weary, bitter sound. Hawke scowls. "Well? Won't you speak? Have you come for a fuck? We still have another hour or two before light comes and you have to crawl back to Lowtown. We'd best hurry."

"Only if you promise to leave coin on the counter for my services. Don't act like you were a bloody saint, Hawke." Anger fills her voice. Hawke has rarely heard it from her. She's usually flippant and dismissive, quick to say that nothing affects her. Hawke wonders if she's angry at being reminded of her mistakes or at Hawke for her past behavior. "You wanted me to be yours—and when I wasn't, you called me a whore."

"You  _acted_  like a whore." She had, hadn't she? The things, she'd done. The restrictions Isabela placed on her. What was allowed and what wasn't. No to emotions, never to making love. Hawke's fingers clench and she steps closer. "Don't  _you_  act like you were a saint." Her temper is flaring and she tries to get a hold of herself. "You  _wanted_  to be nothing to me." How many people did she smell on Isabela, taste on Isabela? "Every time I forgave you, you went out of your way to bloody hurt me again!"

There's a knock at the bedroom door. Hawke swears and turns to see Orana and Bodahn standing cautiously, hands wringing. "Is everything all right, Serah?" Orana asks. Hawke bites her tongue. "We heard shouting," Bodahn says.

"Fine, thank you," Hawke says, irritated and embarrassed.

"Just a bit of domestic bliss, is all," Isabela smiles. Her face reveals nothing amiss but her fingers clutch nervously at the black corset. Hawke remembers helping her into it, making sure to leave the cords loose, to let her breathe and Isabela had still been so tense, so nervous, so miserable. Bodahn and Orana leave. Hawke wipes her face and tries to get a hold of her breathing. "This argument is silly. We're talking as if…" Hawke waits. Isabela shrugs, exhales. "Look—I know I hurt you. I can't say why I did it, really. Even now when I think about it—" she bites her lip. "Sometimes I think of what it must be like to be you and I can't bear it. You're the whore of Kirkwall, Hawke. Not me. And not because you've bloody rutted all of Hightown, either," she says caustically. "Someone wants something, you do it. Sometimes you get payment, sometimes you don't. But always you're expected to smile and do what is asked. And you have to be damned good at it or you really get it. No one ever asks what you think and when it's done, they don't bother until they want something again. That's too hard. I can't do that. I don't know how to do that."

"I never wanted a whore."

"Being a whore and being perfect aren't far too different from one another. All it requires is that you give up everything you are to be what the other person wants or needs. I don't know how to be perfect. I don't even know how to be 'all right'. Not for the likes of you. I spent too long being property. I spent too long 'giving up' things. Sometimes it was my choice. Other times it wasn't. Anyway, that was long ago. But history has a way of holding on to you, no matter how you want to let it go, no matter how you think you have. Sometimes you don't have to say a word." Hawke sighs inwardly. "As the years flew by, I never knew what you wanted with someone like me. I couldn't be what you wanted. And you could have anyone." There's a long silence. She shakes her head. "I hated that you wanted anything at all. Wasn't fun enough?"

"Fun gets tiresome." She runs a hand through her hair. "Maker, Isabela. All I wanted was for you to love me."

"I do—n't …know how to do that. How to love. That requires sacrifice, doesn't it? And I only care about my own skin."

"That's not true."

"It is. Caring for others is dangerous. And I find enough of my own danger without taking on others'."

"Say what you like. You love Merrill. You have a heart. Asking for a person's love… is the most difficult thing to ask for." She looks at her. "It doesn't matter how much you love someone. It doesn't matter how good you've been to them. Sometimes the love is there no matter how wretched they may have been. And sometimes the love isn't there, no matter how good you've been. It doesn't make any sense. It wasn't fair of me and I'm sorry I ever asked you for it."

"You never asked."

Hawke smiles sadly. "Not with words." She brings a hand to her forehead. "Do us both a favor and don't pretend you never knew what I wanted."

Isabela sits on the bed before seeming to notice and quickly standing. "I thought my body would be enough for you. Besides you… there's only been one other who ever wanted anything more. And he's moved on. Just as surely as you."

"That should save us both some heartache." She wonders if Aveline was right. Does Isabela love her? Or did Aveline read too much into things? It would be best to let Isabela go. What has Isabela done but destroy her over and over again throughout the years? She could ask Isabela the question but they're both cowards. Hawke can't bear to ask, nor can she bear it if Isabela were to tell her the truth. Or lie to her, as the case may be. Blast.

Isabela nods vacantly. "Champions don't end up with women like me. Anyway… why be chained down to Kirkwall? I want to sail a ship! I still want one, you know. And when I get one… I'll go."

Isabela walks around the room awkwardly, rubbing at her earring, playing with the cords of her corset. Hawke wants to hold her. The desire confuses her, as does the quickening of her heart. "Mother thought that you and I would make it. That eventually you'd come around," she smiles wryly. "She knew I was crazy about you. And she worried that I'd end up alone."

Isabela laughs softly. "Not for long." She ducks her chin thoughtfully and looks at her. "This…will sound. Well, I don't know how it will sound. But I really liked your mother. I still miss her. Is that crazy? I think it's crazy."

"It isn't crazy."

"She was so… warm. In such a short period of time she made me feel… I can see how you turned out the way you did. I can see why you love and value family."

"I don't have family anymore."

"Yes, you do."

Well, there's Gamlen and Charade but she always seems to forget about them. They didn't grow with her, suffer with her, sacrifice for her. She didn't watch them die. Maybe she's morbid. Maybe after all these years she's lost her mind. "What about your family?"

"I told you about my mother. Whatever man knocked her up was never in the picture. And it only gets worse from there." She shrugs. "I never had any influences on teaching me to love. No one ever taught me about sacrifice. I was sold and taught how to sell others out when it was convenient. Which is good—caring for others… is difficult." She scratches her forehead. "This whole matter with Merrill is…" she shakes her head. "I've tried to change her mind. Have you? She listens to you."

"She doesn't." She thinks of Merrill. What if she becomes an abomination? Should she kill her then? Or should she kill her before then? It would make the battle easier. Merrill is a formidable mage. It would be a difficult fight regardless. Could she kill her when she's still Merrill? She doesn't want to think of it. "I don't want to talk about Merrill."

"I haven't heard you say that in a long time."

No. They were closer in those days and Merrill the subject of their bitter disagreements. Everything was easier then. They were younger. They were innocent, though she hadn't thought that then. Hawke misses that time. "I'd say that some things never change—but life in Kirkwall has taught me that everything changes. Often at the drop of a hat." A beat. "You never told me why you came."

"It all got lost in the argument. If we're not careful we'll be arguing like we did in the old days." Isabela smiles ruefully. "Anyway, I can't remember why. I must have wanted to see you. Talk to you. Maybe."

"Maybe?"

Her smile is mildly embarrassed. "Maybe."

"These aren't talking hours."

"We've never played it like anybody else. This is the most we've spoken since I've returned to Kirkwall." She chuckles. "And all that other talk doesn't count. You have a filthy mouth, by the way."

"That's some praise, coming from you." Hawke says. Isabela continues to stalk the room like some nervous animal, stooping in front of the chest beside the bed. Hawke's heart tightens but Isabela has opened it before she can say anything. All that greets her is the Templar regalia. She prays that Isabela does not dig deeper to find the birthday cloak beneath. "A gift from Meredith."

"She must have a twisted sense of humor." She picks up the chest piece and studies her reflection before setting it down again. "Say you'll be careful around her. She may have given you a title but she still thinks of you as her dog. She hates  _all_  mages; you're no exception. Fenris mentioned you've given her lip? He was broodier than usual about it." Hawke shrugs. Yes. Things between her and the Knight-Commander have gotten tense. It's their nature to be at odds, isn't it? Years ago, Hawke wouldn't have questioned her. Years ago she would have been happy to prove her value, her worth. So what changed? "I'm happy that you're not just rolling over for her—but… be careful, all right?"

"You be careful. Say that a few more times and I'll fool myself into thinking you care."

"You're an idiot," she stands, moving away from the chest. Hawke is relieved. "It's late. Or early. I haven't drank myself into a stupor in too long. Maybe it's time I begin again." She puts her hands on her hips and walks to Hawke. "Unless you can think of something better for me to do."

Hawke smirks. "If you could keep yourself out of the brig you'd be doing everyone a favor." She looks around the room, to the bed and away. "I'm hungry. I think I'll attempt to round something up in the kitchen, if you're feeling peckish?"

"The Champion of Kirkwall rounding me up a snack? And here I thought you'd be telling me to go to the kitchen and make you a sandwich."

"I would if I thought you had the skill." She smiles tiredly. "I'll be back. Keep your hands to yourself, won't you? And out of places where they don't belong?"

"You don't trust me, Hawke?" Isabela asks. Hawke forces her face into nothingness. Isabela smiles, playing with her earring. "I'm hurt."

"Now you know how it feels," Hawke says returning the smile. She no longer knows which of them is making jokes and which of them speaks plainly. Isabela still cuts deep. Still, she wants to go to her and kiss her. She wants to forgive her of everything and forget everything that went badly between them. She says: "Try not to steal everything," and goes downstairs.

Seeing Orana and Bodahn was a strange occurrence. The home feels livelier than usual. What's she doing coming downstairs to grab snacks? What they ought to be doing is throwing each other on the bed or the floor or against a wall and fucking each other senseless. It's become their new way. Hawke takes control of Isabela. And Isabela lets her. Why? "Maybe because it bloody feels good," she mutters to herself, hating that she's muttering to herself.

Isabela lets her because she’s never been one to turn down a good fuck. And of all the failings between them throughout the years, that has never been an area where they've lacked. That's all it must be. Hawke has never been able to replace her in that way. Merrill let her in close but no one besides Isabela has ever made her feel as if she were losing herself, transcending herself. But who's to say that's a good thing? Who was that woman in her home earlier, in her bed earlier? She immediately changed the sheets but… Maker. Hawke can't even remember her name, her face.

She finds some breads, cheeses, fruit and throws them onto a plate. How her family would have killed for this years ago! They never had the luxury. They never could because of her. Her hair falls over her face and she pushes it behind her ear and takes a breath. Isabela is coming dangerously close to making her nervous again and if that happens…

No. It's fine. She can control herself. She takes the plate of food upstairs along with a wine bottle and goblet, not satisfied with having Isabela drink from a glass that another drank from earlier. She kicks the bedroom door open gently with her foot. Isabela is stooped in front of the chest. The damnable birthday cloak in her hands. Hawke nearly drops everything. For a moment she isn't sure that she hasn't. There is no clattering sound. Nothing breaks. Her legs are weak, her position revealed.  _I told you not to touch anything._ But she can say nothing.

Isabela looks quizzical, lost. Hopeful? Her voice is barely there. "You said Bodahn threw this away."

Hawke's lips part. Fabrication requires a grounding that she doesn't possess. She is left only with the truth, uttered helplessly. "I lied."


	19. Chapter 19

A/N: I have 0 excuse for taking this long to update this when it's literally just sitting in my computer, already completed. This is a short one.

 

x

 

"Is there something on my face?"

They're at the Hanged Man. What had initially been a larger group has whittled down. It's been ages since Hawke deigned to venture to Lowtown, to the Hanged Man for anything more than a fuck. Maybe it's only that she's forgotten the routine. Routine is boring. But there are some that Isabela doesn't mind. She thinks of all those years ago when she brought her so many ugly hats. Did Hawke think she wanted them? Was it the only way she could think of coming over? Her eyes could be ferocious, her words vile—but sometimes she was gentle, when she forgot about the act and kissed her, treated her like she was someone worth treating well. How it terrified her. It was easier to hurt her and send her on her way. She didn't want her to stay then.

"Isabela?"

She's embarrassed. "What?" It's a stall tactic and one that isn't working in her favor. Her cheeks darken. For the first time in months there is something other than indifference in Hawke's eyes. "Was I staring?" A slight dipping of Hawke's eyebrows makes her look even more curious. What she should have said was 'nothing at all' or 'nothing worth looking at'. Not this. Lately she feels like a jumble of nerves around her. Hawke kept her cloak and lied about it. What else has she lied about? Shouldn't she have caught her? It takes a liar to know a liar. "Sorry," her third mistake. She should fix it. A lie should do. It's harder these days. "I was just…wondering when we would stop wasting time and head upstairs. It's been too long since you've made my throat ache." It hasn't been that long.

Corrf looks over and coughs. Norah shakes her head in disgust. Hawke doesn't pay any attention to them. Isabela remembers when that kind of thing would fluster her. Can she fluster Hawke anymore? Is it impossible to ruffle a Champion? Hawke rises from the chair, beer forgotten and takes Isabela's hand. Isabela doesn't know whether it's accident that their fingers twine. She only knows that she grips Hawke's hand tighter than she means to as Hawke leads her upstairs. Strange how her heart pounds. It makes her nervous, makes her want to rip her hand away.

Hawke glances back at her and Isabela stays. Will Hawke ever smile at her again? In a way that isn't full of mocking and irony? The door to her room is pushed open. It's too bad about that ship in the bottle. How did it happen that way…? The door is shut and Hawke presses her to it.

"You wanted me to make your voice hoarse? I think that might be arranged."

 

x

Hawke's fingers slide up along her legs. Isabela meets her eyes until it's Hawke who looks away. Isabela bites her tongue. She had looked at Hawke earlier because she's beautiful. What's wrong with her, that she can't say such a simple, honest thing?

It's been years since she wore the cloak. It's in tatters. It's more beat up than the night she wore it to battle the Arishok. Is her memory faulty…? The material is good quality even if its purpose has expired. She no longer needs to hide from anything save whatever feeling stirs in her when Isabela is near.

The mansion is cold. Winter has come again. Isabela hasn't stayed a night since returning. Not that she ever did. But they haven't been together in her room. Hawke wonders if they're afraid. Her fingers explore the cloak sometime further before she cautiously slips it over her shoulders and feels the weight. She stands before the mirror and pulls the cloak over her head.

"Rats." A familiar sigh, Isabela's sigh. Hawke's freezes. "Did a scoundrel break into the Champion's home? This is what happens when the locks aren't changed. All sorts of riff raff get in."

Hawke only half-turns to look at her. Isabela's eyes dance. "So I see." She doesn't know whether she ought to remove the cloak or if doing so in her presence would be a sign of admission. Why hasn't she burned the bloody thing? "What do you want?"

"Ever to the point. I could say 'you' but that'd be a lie…" she glances away before looking back. "Tomorrow you're going to Mount Sundermount with Merrill. I want in."

"Why?"

"Erm—I don't know, support or… gold? That's more believable. Not that the Dalish really value that sort of thing, do they?" Another sigh. "Honestly, I hate that mountain. Not a tavern in sight and a bit too chilly this time of year to enjoy oneself in the waters or… another person. Look, I just want to go. I mean, who knows what will happen and… where ever adventure is…" she bites her lip. "Haven't you thought about just…  _not_  going?"

"Not going on the thing you want to go on?" she asks, a tad too sharply. "You know how Merrill is. Clever, sometimes, but stubborn more often." She draws breath. "If I don't go with her she'll go on her own. And who knows what stupidities she'll do then."

"You're back to that attitude with her are you? I thought last time was temporary insanity."

"To the Void with her," Hawke grouses. Blighted Merrill. Hawke has had many conversations with her, trying to get her to change her mind but the woman remains stubbornly set in her ways. Determined to bloody get herself killed for something that no clan member wants. Sometimes it's best to let go of the past. Sometimes all it brings is pain. Or in Merrill's case, a blighted demon or an abomination.

"You're angry…" Isabela steps closer. "No… you're afraid. So you're fixating on anger. That's what you'd prefer. Better that than fear."

"What do you know of it?"

"Some." Isabela touches the edge of the cloak but Hawke pulls it away. "Do you think I haven't tried to change her mind about it? I thought you'd have more leverage… somehow."

"Me?"

"Yes. You," she says irritably. "We've talked about this before. Or have you missed that Merrill cares for you? You should have heard the way she ripped into me when I got back." Had she? Merrill never told her. "I suppose it all makes sense now that I think of it. When I returned I interrupted something for the both of you. I…didn't mean to. You know, all I've ever wanted is for her to have someone who cares about her."

"She has you."

"Friendship isn't enough. Not always, anyway."

"And if she had me?"

Isabela stops pacing. She runs a hand through her hair and glances at her. "That'd be fine," she says blankly. Hawke wonders whether to believe her. Doesn't know what she'd feel about it either way. Would she go to Merrill? Would she stay for Isabela? Does Isabela even want her? Isabela shakes her head and Hawke feels a pang, as if she's been rejected before being given the opportunity. "I adore Merrill. Hawke, if you kill her, I'll never forgive you. Understand? Never."

"We'll be even, then." Hawke doesn't know if she means it. Hazy things are easier to say.

Isabela rubs her temple, rubs her eyes, expression closely resembling pained. "I'm going to Sundermount, whether you like it or not." She takes a breath. "That's all I wanted to say and now I'm tired. Time for me to crawl back to Lowtown."

Isabela walks past her, stopping when Hawke takes her wrist. "The night is young and it's cold out," Hawke says lowly. The flames of the fireplace grow. Isabela reluctantly faces her. Hawke draws her closer.

Isabela touches the hood of the cloak. "The night I gave you this cloak every person at the party let me know what a selfish cow I was. They thought the party was a ruse. They thought I wanted something."

Hawke remembers the night too clearly. She had only drank a small sum of wine but had felt intoxicated the majority of the evening. The crowd was tiresome but that night she believed that Isabela cared about her. Had she? "What did you want?"

Isabela's fist balls, pounding lightly into Hawke's shoulder. "I wanted you, you idiot. I wanted you to have something nice." Her face is lowered. "But I screwed it up. I left. I left because my hide came before yours. And even when I came back with that Tome of Koslun—it didn't matter because I left  _again_."

"Why?"

Isabela says nothing. "I wore this stupid, shitty cloak for near two years. I couldn't bear to throw it away. It was pathetic. You're pathetic for holding on to it. It's as much mine as it is yours. More so."

Hawke lifts the bottom of the cloak, settling half of it over Isabela's shoulders. "Let's share it then." Isabela looks up at her. Hawke's heart jumps. She needs armor, not a shitty, worn cloak. "I threw your ship in a bottle into the fire. I thought you didn't care for it or for me and I hated it. I hated you. I didn't want you to have your bloody ship. I wanted everything to burn."

Isabela's hand touches her face. "You're the most frightening thing that I've known."

Hawke laughs shakily, her fingers digging into Isabela's back.


	20. Chapter 20

The ashes always fall and melt with the snow in winter.

The Vhenedhal is bare in the Alienage, its branches stretched towards the grey, cloudy skies like skeleton hands. Hawke sits beneath, reclining against the cold, dark bark. Isabela sits next to her, pulling the cloak she wears beneath her, not wanting her ass to rest on the snow. The ground is cold and hard, matching Hawke's expression.

It's early morning still, the sun not yet risen. Hawke's arms are crossed along her knees, drawn to her chest.

"You're not cold?" Isabela asks. They didn't spend the night together; Isabela taking the birthday cloak with her when she left. Things remain tense and uncertain between them. Does Hawke worry because she may lose Merrill today? Hawke says nothing. It took years for Isabela to break her of her taciturn ways. Her absence has returned them fully to her. In some ways, she feels as if history is repeating itself. Hawke is ice but it no longer brings Isabela comfort. "It's cold enough without you giving me the cold shoulder."

"I don't know if I can do this," she says, her words more like breath than any vocalization.

Isabela waits. Hawke's jaw quivers. She's nervous. Hawke's hand is beside hers. Isabela stares at it before forcing her fingers over hers. Cold as death. Hawke glances at the hand, at her. "You don't have to do anything. I've said it before: you're not obligated to do anything. Not even for your friends." She waits for Hawke to remove her hand. "Let's forget it. Nuncio has that assassin for us to deal with, hasn't he? Assassins are  _much_  more fun than demons."

"If I don't go… and she becomes an abomination." She frowns. Her voice lowers: "Meredith told me about her sister. She was an apostate."

Isabela scoffs. "Hypocrite!" Of bloody course she was.

"No, stop." But it's Hawke that stops for minutes. She shakes her head. "Bethany was always afraid of it. My sister, Bethany. I used to smile and tell her it would be all right but it terrified me and the Templars terrified me. It was all a show. Bloody everything frightened me." Isabela squeezes her hand and Hawke shakes her head, as if remembering that she's getting off topic. "The Knight-Commander's family hid her sister. Just like my family hid us. One day she lost it and became an abomination. She killed… so many people before they could stop her. An entire village's worth. I can see why the Knight-Commander is the way she is."

"That won't happen to Merrill. You won't let that happen. We won't let that happen."

"Maybe I should kill her now. That bloody mirror of hers, what's it worth? Is it worth the lives of her village? Her life? Possibly ours? If this doesn't work, she'll try something else. She's a blood mage. She's dangerous. We all are. All mages are a blight. Kirkwall thinks I'm better but they don't know. They didn't see that day at the Wounded Coast. I was a monster. Maybe I still am." She rubs her temple nervously.

Isabela squeezes her hand more tightly. "You are no monster. Whatever happens… I'll be beside you. All right?" Hawke looks at her until Isabela forgets that it's cold but finds herself wanting to clutch her. "Do you need a few minutes with her… before we set off?"

"Aren't you cold?"

"I've got this trusty cloak."

They look at one another for a long time. Hawke has ash on her face. Isabela leans over impulsively and kisses a streak away. Their breath puffs in the air. Hawke glides her fingers along Isabela's face before standing and going to Merrill's.

 

x

 

"I know what you're thinking, Hawke. And I won't let you do it." Merrill moves protectively in front of the mirror, her fingers clutching her staff. She's pale but the scars of her blood magic still stand out, faded after all this time. "I've worked too long and too hard for this. I won't let you destroy the Eluvian. I won't let you stop me."

"You'd fight me?"

"I'd kill you. This is for the future of my clan. This is for all the history of my clan. That's worth anything to me. That's worth all the love in the world. As with other things…I'd mourn you later."

Hawke clenches her fist. Better to end that damned mirror than let Merrill go through with this. The blasted Eluvian is the source of all her trouble, all her misery. "You can't stop me."

Merrill's face crumples, eyes glistening until nearly all her resolve has buckled. "Hawke. Please. I don't want to fight you." She sinks to the floor, hands covering her face. Hawke glares down at her, angry that she has come to feel anything for the wretched, foolish woman. Hadn't she just about run out of things to care about? Why throw some fool blood mage in the lot? A blood mage! No one worth their salt is one. "Do you remember our first meeting years ago? When you came to deliver that amulet for Asha'Bellanar?" Hawke waits. "I was so nervous. I'd never known a shemlen before, never seen one up close. I thought you were beautiful. You… I was a jumble of nerves but you saw through all of that. It didn't matter to you that I was an elf. You smiled. You asked what was wrong, how you could help. You didn't know why the clan saw me as a monster. And then—when we arrived at that barrier and I cut into my palm I saw that same look of disgust cross over your face, the same it did with them. Do you know how that hurt me? How it hurts me still?" She looks at Hawke. "That look has never left your face entirely. Lately, all I see on your face is contempt for me and my ambitions. It makes me feel like nothing."

Hawke looks around at the walls, at the floor, at the tiny, poor bed where they made love for nearly a year. The memory of it makes her feel hollow and crazy.

"Well, I can take it." Merrill continues, her voice hardening. "I can take more than you know. I have taken so much loneliness and bitterness that I've near choked on it. I will take the spite of the flat ears and the shemlens and dwarves that think they'll fall into the sky and I will swallow it. But I won't give this up. Even if it kills me, I will not abandon my people."

"Merrill…" Hawke shakes her head. The realization hits her, making her sick and shaky. "I don't want to lose you."

"I haven't belonged to anyone or anything but the Eluvian for years, Hawke," she scoffs and stands. "You never had me."

x

 

They're washed red, breathing raggedly until their breath gives way and all they can taste is blood in their throats. Merrill's side is bleeding, the place where the blade went in. Their faces are streaked with dirt and Marethari is dead at their feet. Merrill whimpers. Hawke isn't sure if it's from the stab wound or the dead Keeper.

"Oh, Creators," the tears run down Merrill's face. "What have I done? What have I done?" She falls to her knees beside her.

"She needs healing," Isabela says. Hawke stares at Merrill. At the dead Marethari. Could she have prevented this? She could have prevented this. After the fight, Marethari said something—something about it being over. She wasn't thinking. Merrill wasn't thinking. Hope and optimism can be blinding, deceiving. She should have known that a demon is not dead until the host is dead. Is there a demon still inside her? What if it's only resting? What if it never left her at the Wounded Coast? "Hawke," Isabela takes her arm. "She needs your help."

"Let her die," Fenris says sourly. "A far better woman is dead for her stupidity."

Should she let her die? Maybe all mages ought to be extinguished. All they bring are bold ideas and stupidity, too much power. Isabela calls her name again. An innocent woman is dead; dead because she loved Merrill and wanted to help her. Marethari was a better person than Merrill. If Hawke had killed Merrill previously, Marethari wouldn't be dead. When did she begin to question that those summoning demons could be good…? Should be worth living? "Hawke!  _Help_  her."

Hawke looks at Isabela and then at Merrill who is on the ground, clutching her stomach, turned on her side. Her breath is shaky. Tears run down her face. "He's right, Fenris is right. I was a fool. I—" her breath hitches, she swallows and closes her eyes.

"Leave her, Hawke. She isn't worth the effort." Fenris takes Hawke's arm, pulling her. She allows it, feeling weightless, looking back at Merrill and her small form, next to a dead Marethari. She's near the entrance of the cave when she breaks free and stumbles back to them. She doesn't see Isabela or her glare.

She kneels beside Merrill, bringing her hand to her abdomen. Merrill feebly pushes her hand away. "Let me die. I don't belong in this world."

Hawke ignores her. She's bleeding heavily, blood instantly soaking her fingers. This will be difficult. She doesn't have any lyrium on hand and she's already drained. "You won't get off that easily. Marethari didn't die for you just so I could let you die. You've made your bed, Merrill. You'll live with your bad decisions." Just as she will have to live with hers.

Hawke grits her teeth and begins to heal her. She flushes as the phantom sensation of a knife being shoved into her materializes. Merrill takes hold of her arm but Hawke isn't sure if she's trying to keep her close or push her away.

x

 

"I told you we should have followed Nuncio's lead," Isabela wraps Hawke's arm around her shoulder, helping her walk. Merrill is in her home, passed out. Fenris wouldn't stay but Hawke isn't well enough to guard her either.

It's cold and the ground is patchy and icy. Hawke's wheezing makes Isabela uncomfortable. Hawke has never leaned against her. "You won't make it back to Hightown like this. We should see Anders." Hawke shakes her head. "Don't be stubborn."

Hawke's only response is her hoarse breath.

"I'm sorry I keep making you heal Merrill. I remember those cuts on your arms when you did that long ago. And now this. But you know, I'm not sorry. She's alive and you're tough. So's Merrill but…" she sighs. "What a mess. Do you think she'll be all right? You saved her from her clan but… they want nothing to do with her now. She's put her life and blood into that mirror. I'll send Aveline to check on her." Hawke shakes her head. Isabela wishes she knew what Hawke was thinking. "I'm bringing you to the Hanged Man." Hawke shakes her head again. "Don't argue with me."

They make it to the Hanged Man. Somehow they make it up the stairs. Isabela kicks the door to her room open. She should be with Merrill but she can't bear to leave Hawke. The whole situation has left her confused and torn. Friends before fucks. But Hawke is more than that, isn't she? Damn it.

"Lie down," Isabela tries her best to set her on the bed but Hawke falls awkwardly on her side and stays there, breathing raspily. Isabela worries. "I'll get Anders." Hawke shakes her head and coughs. Blood dots her pillow. "I'm _going_  to get Anders."

"No." Hawke's fingers wrap around her wrist, smudging it with blood. "Just…give… me...time…"

"No. Hawke, no." Isabela shakes her head. Hawke doesn't release her wrist. "I found some lyrium a while ago… er, stole," she mutters, "will it help you?" Hawke nods pitifully. Isabela disengages from her and goes to a small chest beside her bureau, pulling out several vials of luminescent blue liquid. "Won't too much of this make you crazy?" She uncorks a vial and situates herself on the bed, resting Hawke's head on her leg. "I want you to be all right." She brings the vial to Hawke's lips and she drinks it down. Lyrium sells for a lot of money and here she is throwing it away instead of selling it to a junkie Templar for far more than it's worth. But if it'll make Hawke well… Hawke drinks another one and closes her eyes. "Are you all right?" Isabela asks, alarmed.

"Tired."

"You're still bleeding."

"It's cold in here."

"I'll start a fire." Isabela tries to stand. Hawke shakes her head, takes her arm. The fireplace sparks, burning slowly. Isabela looks back at her. She's closed her eyes again. "Will you be okay?"

Hawke nods again. "I'm tired." She closes her eyes. Isabela isn't used to worry. Not for someone that isn't herself. Not for someone that isn't Merrill. Isabela watches her, touching her finger to her tongue and wiping the blood from Hawke's face best she can. She strokes her hair carefully, grateful that no one can see, grateful that Hawke won't remember. It goes like this until Isabela doesn't know how much time has passed. Then Hawke startles awake, as if having had a dream where she's fallen. Hawke looks at her wildly and then away. "Help me up. I'll go."

"No…!" She hates it when she says things without thinking them through. "I mean… it's all right. Just stay. Rest." Isabela waits for Hawke to protest, to supply her with a history of her past behavior, her many inconsistencies. Maybe she's too tired. She nods and shifts, turning to get more comfortable before closing her eyes again. Her breathing is unsteady. Maybe Isabela only listens too closely. Maybe she's only paranoid that she won't be all right.

Isabela reaches, carefully as she can to Hawke's jacket, undoing a few buttons. It's soaked in blood, as is her stomach. She'll never understand healers. It's too selfless, too pointlessly painful. It looks to be getting better. Maybe. Maybe it's only wishful thinking.

Hawke's breath hitches. Isabela strokes her hair, monitoring her closely.

 

x

 

Hawke is hunkered beside Merrill's bed, forehead resting on laced fingers that look as if they've been dipped in blood. Anders wonders if she's praying, if she does pray. He used to pray, long ago, before finding that the Maker didn't care for his prayers any more than the Chantry or Hawke cared for the plight of mages.

Anders isn't sure if this is the best or worst possible time to broach the conversation. Hawke has always taking the self-loathing of mages to new levels. With the disaster that Merrill (predictably) proved to be, Hawke may have decided to stop aiding mages altogether. A pity—she was doing so well for a while. But if he can convince her to help him collect the ingredients for his 'Tevinter' potion then… "I need to talk to you."

Hawke lowers her hands and looks back at him. The years have aged her. Not in any physical way; she is as irritatingly attractive as ever. Her cheeks and lips are still distractingly rosy, her countenance as sour as ever—but her eyes are not so pale and lifeless like a dolls as he initially thought. They are darkened, wrecked and embittered by history, by the politics of bloody Kirkwall. She takes a brief look at Merrill, asleep and paler than ever from the blow suffered by Marethari. Of course the blood mage lived through it. Blood mages. Just enough of them to terrify the people, to give mages a bad name. But would they keep turning to blood magic if not for the blasted Chantry and the endless persecution? Unlikely.

"Can't this wait?"

Anders can't say that Hawke has ever had 'fire'. More often than not she burns with icy reserve. Tonight she is defeated and tired. It could be the dark. The way the shadows play on Hawke's face. It could be Merrill's hovel. Regardless, Anders sees an opportunity and he aims to take it. "It can't." A beat. He looks at Merrill. "Have you been healing her?" Hawke looks away from him. "Can you even stand?" Hawke says nothing, fingers going absently to her side. "Healing a wound like she received would be difficult for a Grey Warden. You're no warden."

"Get to your point, Anders. We are not friends. I have little patience for you."

He bites his tongue. Hawke has always been a bitch. He's heard Varric speak of her, telling him that she has a soft side, a side that cracks jokes and laughs easily. That has to be his most ridiculous story yet. What are storytellers but the biggest, most creative of liars? And now he must channel Varric and spin a tale that will move the icy bitch's heart. He used to be silver tongued—there was a time he charmed all those he met. Smiling and making jokes through the impenetrable sadness and frustration he felt at being locked in a Circle. Sleeping his way around to try to find some piece of solace. The Templars couldn't take that brief joy. And then they bloody took Karl. No. He must do this. He must lie to Hawke to avenge the mages. Without action the Chantry won't stop until they've been all but wiped out from existence. "I need your help." He waits for the protest, for the instant shut down but it doesn't come. She exhales slowly. "There's a potion… I've been doing research on it for some time. You're right. Justice can be… alarming… and day by day I feel myself… slipping." He has her attention now. She rises slowly. "You know that most of all I care for the plight of the mages—even if you don't… even if we haven't agreed. When Justice takes hold of me—I can't lose control like that. You understand, Hawke, don't you? How terrifying it is to lose yourself."

She narrows his eyes on him, sharp as knives. One night, ages ago, years ago, Isabela got drunk at the Hanged Man. He couldn't make much sense of what she was saying but he understood that Hawke was at the Wounded Coast and Hawke dispatched, with brutal violence, a small army of raiders and Templars with the cruelest magic, in the most horrifying means. He had never seen Isabela look so haunted.

"Or maybe you don't know," he says quickly, trying to recover, "but I do. I never told you this—but long ago before we met. I was at a tavern, drinking… there were Templars—just… being the way that they are. Mocking mages. Talking of how they'd killed some for sport or play—you've never been in the Circle—you never knew how they could use us…" he shakes his head. "I'd left the Wardens then… I thought I knew control but. I lost it. Justice took me and I massacred them. I stopped drinking that night. But it hasn't helped. Every day, every injustice in Kirkwall makes me angrier—him angrier. I don't even know anymore!"

He's getting carried away. He's being more truthful than he intended, even if his suggestion is founded on lies. But Hawke's eyes have softened, somewhat. He may be able to have her aid after all. "I can't go on like this. This potion would … separate Justice from myself."

"You've said that wasn't possible," she says cautiously. "You've said that many times."

"I know," he says shortly. "But that was years ago. You're not exactly talkative. And we can't say that we've ever taking each other into confidence. There are some ingredients I need. You're Kirkwall's Champion," he says bitterly, "I thought you'd like to help rid Kirkwall of another danger."

Kirkwall's Champion. What a joke. An apostate Champion and still she lets Meredith lead her around. Sure, she's stood up to her now and then but what does it matter? Hawke has done nothing for mages. Nothing more than to be an entertaining party trick for the nobility. Anders has even heard that Hawke sleeps with the Knight-Commander. It's ridiculous. Or is it? He doesn't trust either woman.

"Why can't you get these ingredients on your own? Why come to me?"

"The ingredients are scattered in the sewers of Dark Town and the Bone Pit. I'm strong Hawke but… you know that the others don't follow me without your lead. I need your help, can't you for once give it to me?"

"I bloody gave Merrill her help," she points at the bed, "and look what it got her! What it got Marethari, what it got me! Kirkwall doesn't need my ' _help_ '. Haven't you been saying for years that I'm a fuck-up? If this potion of yours can really help remove Justice from you, I'm happy. Truly. I want you to find peace, Anders, free of that abomination. You don't need me."

He clenches his fist. "If not for you, Merrill would be dead! Murdered by her clan! Not just by the demon but the rest of them. You took responsibility for her actions! I'm not asking you to do that for me! But please, Hawke, for once, help me! Just bloody help me! Do you really not care for the plight of the mages? Would you be so happy to just stand by?" Everything goes foggy. Several moments later, he's panting. His throat itches. His hair has fallen over his face. He takes a breath. His skin is sweaty. Hawke looks at him, furiously. "Is it so wrong of me to ask you for help?"

"Do you  _really_  not know what just happened?" She asks, taking a threatening step towards him. Anders flinches, his eyes going every which way. "I pity you, Anders and that  _thing_  you have inside of you. Justice," she sneers, the word, a proud word, a proud name, dripping with venom. "I'll help you get the things you need. The world could stand to be freed from your brand of Justice. Now bloody get out. I don't want to look at you. If you ever speak that way of me and my family again—I  _will_  kill you."

He nods feebly. His head aches, his body is drained and hollow but his heart races in happy triumph. Yes. Hawke will help him. Inadvertently as it may be but the way is now set. The plight of the mages will be ignored no more.

 

x

The sink coughs and sputters before spitting out a trickle of frigid water. Hawke washes the blood from her hands. She examines her reflection in a dingy, not quite square mirror that hangs above the sink, having to duck to see her face. Has she always been so pale? She looks down at the sink and the blood remnants. She doesn't notice Merrill right away.

"I'm sorry." Merrill says. Her voice is scratchy and weak. "I thought…" she takes a breath, holding on to the doorway for support. Her hands are still bloody. Hawke wonders why she didn't think to wash them for her while she slept. "Ever since Mahariel…died." Another pause. "I couldn't save her. And I couldn't save Tamlen. Or Pol. Or Marethari. I can't save anyone, no matter how hard I try. I was stupid. I thought… that I was enough. That even if I was the only one who believed in me… even if the years were lonely and miserable… even if in the end everybody hated and feared me…" she shakes her head. "But I was wrong. I was wrong about everything. Because of me, Marethari is dead. I'm a terrible First."

"You were." Hawke says sharply. She takes Merrill's arm and pulls her into the small bathroom, guiding her hands to the sink. "You aren't anymore. You can't care for your clan. You can only care for yourself. It's time, isn't it?"

Merrill is still as Hawke rubs the blood off her hands. If only it were so easy. "They were my family. The only one I'd ever known. I failed them. And they  _hate_  me."

"But they're alive—for the most part. Be grateful for small mercies." She turns the water off. "I have no family left. I'm still waiting for it to stop hurting. I'm still waiting for the day when I can say 'I did enough'." Merrill bows her head. Hawke feels the stitches in her side twist painfully. She bites her tongue and takes Merrill's hands, grabbing a rough, drab towel to the side and drying them.

"Do you hate me?"

"I want to." She folds the towel and sets it aside. "I'm glad you're awake." She leaves the bathroom, hearing Merrill's soft footsteps padding behind her. "I thought about leaving you to die." She stops suddenly, Merrill bumping into her. Hawke turns and looks at her.

If her words hurt Merrill, she doesn't show it. She looks tired and blank. "Maybe you should have."

"I'm sorry. I thought I was better than that." Hawke smiles wryly. "But Isabela would have never forgiven me." A beat. "I would never have forgiven myself. I've thought about it, Merrill. Blood magic… blood mages… I can't accept it. I can't think rationally about it. I can't forgive it." Merrill says nothing. "What good comes of it? Can you think of anything?"

"It saved you years ago."

Hawke shakes her head. "I'm not sure it did. I'm not sure it should have." She sighs. "This…  _demon_  brought you to blood magic. And now it has taken from you everything you ever cared for. This is your chance to put it behind you. It's what Marethari would want."

"Marethari's dead. It's all my fault, I know." She moves past her to go to the bedroom, to sit on the bed. She runs a hand over her face. "I devoted my life to this. What were all the scars worth, all the empty years if… could it have all been for nothing? It's not fair."

"You have a good deal of maturing to do if you think life is fair."

Merrill's lips thin. "How can I fight at your side if I give up blood magic? It's saved your life. It has saved Isabela's." She sighs. "I suppose that doesn't matter. Maybe, like the history of our people, like our old ways, I'll be forgotten…" she hesitates and looks up at Hawke. "I forgot to leave an offering for Mythal. At Sundermount. Both times I forgot. I angered her. It's no wonder everything turned out such a mess."

"Mythal? Some goddess of yours?" Hawke believes she's heard Merrill say the name before but can't recall any of the details. "Don't blame her for your actions."

Merrill is quiet a long time. She shakes her head. "You don't have to stay. You no longer have any obligation to me. Your debt was paid long ago. Your debt was paid the moment I first set foot in Kirkwall." She waits when Hawke doesn't leave. "Why do you look sad?"

"Marethari wanted me to save you from all of this. She gave me years to. But in the end I couldn't save either of you. Even when you have history at your disposal you're doomed to repeat it. An Eluvian wouldn't have fixed that. We're fools, Merrill. The both of us."


	21. Chapter 21

Hawke's hips roll smoothly, making Zevran swear in his native tongue. Isabela has never seen Hawke like this. She takes more delight in actively participating than being a voyeur. Hawke is majestic, commanding. She pins Zevran's arms down while he laughs and grunts deliriously.

It seems madness that Isabela ever thought her cold. She had not known Hawke to be overly experienced with men. Maybe her absence gave her the opportunity to explore. Her technique is polished.

Is there any part of Hawke that belongs to her? Isabela once deluded herself into thinking that the various men and women that Hawke took were only a distraction for Hawke— to stop herself from thinking of her. Yet Isabela is there, in the room with the candle that has been reduced to a stump and she has been forgotten. Hawke confessed love once and Isabela hated her for it.

Hawke's hands trail Zevran's chest, bracing for the pivot of their hips that meet forcefully. Hawke doesn't gasp, only watches him intently, as intently as Isabela watches the two of them. Zevran takes fierce hold of Hawke's hips. His hands will leave a mark.

Isabela smiles, battling the contradictory arousal, the stinging and bitter jealousy. She made a joke of this. She told Zevran, in front of Hawke, that he was not to leave without sex.

She isn't sure anymore whether it had been a taunt. Isn't she past that now? Shouldn't she be? Why do this when things with Hawke are finally beginning to settle down? Is she getting scared again? Zevran was always open minded, down for a threesome or two without getting his knickers in a twist. Hawke has apparently also become open minded. The invitation for sex had left Isabela's mouth before she could take it back. She had expected Hawke to protest, or storm away, not ask for an invitation.

Hawke's focus is remarkable.

Isabela sweats in the hot, tiny room. She kneels beside Zevran and kisses his chest. His hand settles at the back of her neck, his sweet accented words breathing how much he's missed her.

Hawke looks like a sculpture in this light, spine arched back, breasts out, heaving beautifully. She's a well-guarded treasure that Isabela aims to steal. Hawke lowers, lips on his ear: "I heard you were an artist. Somebody lied to me."

Zevran chuckles. Isabela's heart twist painfully, dulled by the assurance that Zevran may not be enough. He flips them, throwing Hawke on her back, hands settling beneath her to jerk her close. "You have not seen the beginning of me, Champion."

He thrusts into her, fingers grazing her breasts. Hawke takes a sharp breath and Isabela feels her advantage begin to dwindle. She wants to dress and go. What's the matter with her? "Well, don't forget about me," she says cheekily.

Zevran looks to her with a bold grin. "I couldn't if I tried." Hawke's eyes whisper along her skin. Isabela must still be looking at her, turning to look at her. It must be why his lips miss hers.

They watch her every response. Listening too closely to the hitching of her breath. Their eyes burn into her. It makes Isabela self-conscious. Was this a mistake? Her body tells her no. Her thoughts, foggy with euphoria, tell her no. She hates how Zevran and Hawke look at each other: hot and challenging. She hates how their gaze makes her feel.

They distract her with their hands and mouths and still she can't still her mind.

x

Zevran has gone. He's always had that way to him. When Isabela had a love affair with him he came with the shadows and slinked away just as easily. He killed that sack of shit she called her husband, saving her life when he took Luis'. She got a ship and to live the pirate life for years. It was  _fun_. And then she stupidly agreed to get that damned relic.

Isabela is jarred from the thoughts with the sharp draw of her black corset lacing. Her fingers graze the soft material. Hawke stands behind her. "Too tight?" she asks. Isabela slides her fingers beneath the leather string and shakes her head. Isabela feels the delicate pressure of Hawke's fingers maneuvering the cords, pulling it tighter. It's surprising that Isabela breathes easier. "Are you thinking of him?"

She's proud of herself for not turning around to face her. "A little." She admits. Hawke's fingers slow. "I'm not sure whether I liked seeing you that way." Isabela looks at the puddle of wax with an ember wick sticking out of it. The room has been paid for the night but Hawke doesn't want to linger too long.

"In what way?"

_With him_. "I'm not sure, really." She reaches down to tighten the belts on her boot. Hawke's fingers glide along her clothing, barely there but Isabela is too aware of them. "I told you about what my mother did. He was raised by whores and then sold to assassins." And still, he's a noble sort. "He got blades and I got silks—but in the end we were just party favors to be whored out when it came to getting an advantage." Hawke finishes lacing the corset. "It's an awful feeling—being reduced to property. What's a sovereign worth anyway?"

"It depends on the amount."

Isabela can't tell whether Hawke's joking. Isabela doesn't care for it at the moment. Then again, she has been known to make light of things that she shouldn't and often. Maybe this is payback. Hawke has been preoccupied lately with Merrill and with whatever it is that Anders asked of her. Isabela insisted on a break to hunt assassins. What a delight it had been to find Zevran. "I was trying to be serious." Hawke threads her fingers through her hair as if she were a pet or distracted or trying to soothe her into silence. Isabela turns and looks at her. "Are you all right?"

"After so many hours of fun? Why wouldn't I be?" Hawke's smiles lately are only hinted at. The paleness of her eyes the color of rushing waves. Isabela takes careful hold of her hips and maneuvers her back to the bed, straddling her as soon as she's seated. "What's this?"

"I'm trying to talk to you."

"If this is how you talk to others I'm afraid—" Hawke's eyes flick away. Isabela waits but Hawke only shakes her head, leaving the sentence frustratingly unfinished. Isabela sweeps the hair from Hawke's neck and begins to plant kisses there. Hawke tenses. Strange given how agreeable and pliable she was earlier. Isabela decides not to take offense. If a party is willing, it's easy to take offense to just about anything. "I thought we were leaving."

"We are. Eventually." She grazes her lips along Hawke's jawline, pulling away long enough to meet her eyes. "Have you ever done that before?"

"Not with the two of you."

"Who else?" Isabela gets a shrug in response. She doesn't know that it matters. It isn't her first foray into threesomes. Aside from this one there have been others. There have been foursomes. The Grey Warden, Leliana and Zevran, one of her favorites. Wasn't Hawke's cousin the Grey Warden? Daylen Amell, was it? Why hadn't she connected the two until now? Does Hawke know about that? Would it matter? "I'm curious."

"Why?" A beat. "You weren't here."

"So it only happened when I was gone?" Isabela asks. Hawke's body stiffens further at the question. Isabela circles her arms around her neck. "I know why… I mean, I understand." Hawke's eyes tell her that she doesn't care whether or not she understands. "Do you still?" she asks too quietly.

Hawke considers but Isabela doesn't know what. When the two of them began talking again Hawke was viciously direct. Recently something has changed and she lives beneath the surface. Hawke's hands settle beneath Isabela and she pushes them to her feet, Isabela's legs wrapped around her waist. "Let's get going. There's no more reason to stay."

x

 

"What are you doing in here?" Hawke demands.

Isabela's heart drops, whirling in a panic towards the door, still holding the hand mirror. Hawke looms at the door like a wraith, the faint light in her eyes like pale moons. Isabela tries to think of something appropriate to say—or anything, really. She doesn't usually have a problem in this arena. Her mouth has gotten her out of a lot of scrapes. The truth is that she knows she shouldn't be in Leandra's room. Never, really. But especially not today.

Hawke storms into the room, her hand wrapped violently around her upper arm. The hold is so quick and fierce that it startles her. The mirror falls from her hand, crashing to the floor, shattering. Isabela goes cold and sweaty. Hawke goes white.

"I'm sorry," Isabela says. She is. So sorry. So damned sorry that she has taken one of Leandra's few remaining items and unintentionally destroyed it. "You startled me—I just… I was only—I'm sorry," she kneels, hurriedly trying to pick up the pieces, cutting herself in her desperation, the shards of broken glass slicing into her fingers. Blood bleeds to the surface but the real sting is in Hawke's eyes. They look glassy and wet, pained. Four years ago on this day, Hawke lost Leandra to a blood mage. The day has been coming up for some time. Why didn't she realize earlier that this was the reason for her foul mood?

Because, she quickly realizes, she was gone for the first three years. Leandra was killed, Hawke fought a duel for her and then Isabela left. She holds the mirror guiltily in her hands while Hawke picks up the broken frame. The room is spotless, free of any speck of dust but it looks the same. Whenever Isabela has dared a look, nothing has ever shifted from where it lies.

"Just get out. Leave it and get out."

Isabela gets up, but Hawke takes her arm, holding out her hand. Isabela still carries the broken shards of mirror, and presuming that this is what Hawke wants, releases them. She steps out into the hallway and paces for minutes. Her hands are bleeding but what does it matter? They're just scratches.

She thinks of cooking stew with Leandra and how she'd told her of her handsome suitor, the one she couldn't find a reason for fancying her. Isabela's stomach turns. Is there a way to have known? A way to have stopped him? They hunted him for years in some ways. Isabela remembers how happy Hawke had been the night that she killed that dwarf Dougal. She thought she'd kept her mother safe that night. She had. But…

Hawke exits minutes later, her expression dark. Isabela follows her as she goes into her bedroom, taking the mirror and all its fragments and placing them in an engraved cherry wood box. She shuts it. "Will you throw it out?" Isabela asks hesitantly. "I didn't mean it." Hawke snatches her wrists, turning Isabela's palms upward. She has cut deep. Strange how she didn't feel it. Hawke's face is expressionless. "You're not going to turn into an abomination again, are you? Merrill can barely make it out of bed. I don't know how I'd fight you off on my own without any blood magic." Isabela grimaces at the poor joke. Sometimes she wishes she could stop herself before she uttered whatever horrible thing. "You're so strong," she mutters. Hawke only looks at her. Isabela tries to pull her hands away. "I'll go to Anders."

But even as she says the words she feels the heat in her hands, her flesh stitching itself back together. It's more painful than the actual cuts but soon there's no pain at all and all that's left is dry blood on her hands. She takes Hawke's hand, turning them over. As she suspected, there are deep grooves in her hands where Isabela's cuts had been only moments ago. "You really are an idiot to do this for me." She holds on to her hands, fingers teasing along the hot flesh. "Are you going to say anything?"

Hawke pulls her hands away. "I've told you to stay out of that room."

"I know. But when do I ever do anything you ask? All the best places are the ones I'm not supposed to be in," she shrugs apologetically, digs her boot into the ground while she tries to think of words. "What did you do on this day…? All those years I was gone?" Why doesn't she know this? Shouldn't she know this? She's reminded again that she is a terrible person.

Hawke's jaw tightens. "For the first two years I drank. The third year I drank and whored. The weeks leading up to it and the weeks following. It was quiet after you went. I could do those things. The trouble left Kirkwall when you did, it would seem. And now you're back."

"And so is the trouble," Isabela fills glibly. It's funny the tremendous effort required to be cheerful when she's feeling anything but. "I came back to Kirkwall for my ship." She bows her head. "And…I'll admit it. I thought of you. But I don't have to be here, Hawke. This is your city now. You tell me to go and I'll leave, never to return."

"You would do that?"

"If it's what you wanted."

Hawke takes a seat on the bed, quiet for too long. "It isn't what I want." Isabela approaches her cautiously before sitting beside her. Four years ago she sat next to Hawke as she grieved over her mother and told her that Aveline cared for her. What an awkward tit she was. Hawke looks at her as if in careful consideration of what words she might say but in the end she says nothing.

"You always hold your tongue."

"Not always."

Isabela smiles. "You know what I mean." She sobers somewhat thinking of the mirror that she's broken. She knows the value Hawke places on things. A value of emotion. That stupid cloak for one. The knife at her side used to cut into her face, to end her brother. The mirror. "Is there something you're afraid of…?" Hawke sits much the same way she did that night: shoulders slumped, arms listlessly in front of her. "Seeing Zevran made me think of your mother. My mother. His mother. Mothers." Her brow crinkles. "His mother turned to whoring to pay off some debts that were owed. He spoke highly of her but I don't think he knew her well. He was never one to judge. I like that about him." Isabela doesn't know what point it is she's trying to get at. "My mother sold me for some coin. She was angry because I wouldn't take up the Qun. I hated her then. And I hated everything that came next. Sometimes I think that's why I took that bloody Tome of Koslun. There was the coin—there's always the coin but something more. I wanted to hurt the bloody qunari  _and_  her. But what did it matter in the end? It just confirms everything my mother and they thought about me. If you'd have given me to them they would have used that qamek on me. Turned me into some mindless slave without free will," she laughs softly. "The thought of that scared the piss out of me." She waits. "Did you ever think you should have just given me to them?"

"Yes. When I was angry."

Isabela nods slowly. "Then… I suppose I should thank you for not doing that. I'm sorry I went into your mother's room," she winces. "Every now and then I think of Leandra. Something will remind me of her or someone will talk about their own mothers… She was so good. Sometimes I wonder if she'd approve. She did before… I think so. But we mucked it all up then. I mucked it up. I wish she were still here. She treated me more like a daughter than my own mother did. It's not very fair, is it? Who lives and who dies. We've both lost so much. You more than anyone."

"I've also had more luck thrown my way than others." She laces her fingers. "The flowers you left on her grave are lovely." Isabela makes no acknowledgement of the gesture. She's still as Hawke threads her fingers through her hair. "Will you see that assassin again?"

"Zevran? I'm not sure. He's certainly limber. It'd be tragic to pass him up." She looks at Hawke, measuring how the rhythm of her fingers slow through her hair. "Being with the two of you was… fun but confusing. I've had more partners than that at once," she admits, "so I'm not sure what it is."

"You've had Anders," Hawke points out.

Oh. So she remembers that conversation. That was years ago. She suddenly wishes that Hawke didn't remember, if only for her plain dislike of the man, of the sensitive nature of her feelings. Would she view it as a betrayal? "That was a long time ago. I didn't even remember it until he pointed it out." She waits. "Why bring that up now?" Hawke's eyes shift. "While we're at it, I've had some Fereldan Hero by the name of Daylen Amell. Some Grey Warden. Ah—I don't suppose… there's no relation there?" Hawke's fingers fall away from her. "You're angry?"

Hawke waits a full minute before responding. "No. I don't think so. I'm just sad. My immediate family is dead. The rest are as good as dead. Strangers." Hawke sighs. Isabela moves behind her, hands on her back, beginning to carefully massage her shoulders. "How am I so good at making bad decisions?"

"I kind of like that you've made some bad decisions." She presses a kiss to her forehead. "Don't be so hard on yourself. And don't forget all the good things you've done for Kirkwall." A minute passes. Isabela's heart thrums. "I… brought a quill and some vellum. I think I'll write some friend fiction tonight. Break into enough homes and you'll find out who has the goods. You've got the best wine selection in Kirkwall. Trust me."

"My wine collection has won you? I never knew that would do it. What will you write?"

"I was plotting a tale in which you trick Aveline into having an extramarital affair. There's a scene in the brig with you and everything. Shackles are involved. It has some…influence from real life events." She continues to massage her shoulders, happy when some of the tension begins to ease away. She kisses Hawke's ear and speaks softly. She's nervous. "I'll stay out of your way but I'll be here. If that's all right."

"It's all right."

x

 

Hawke has been asleep for hours, nodding off mid-conversation, in the midst of responses about the city-guard barracks. Isabela has nearly filled the vellum, chuckling to herself at the image of Hawke and Aveline engaged in heated sexual activity. There may have been a time that she'd have written about Hawke and Merrill. No more.

Isabela sets the quill aside next to the bottle of wine she's been drinking throughout the night. It's morning now, the sky turning that faint shade of blue before it's set ablaze in pinks, reds and oranges. Isabela removes her boots, her bandana and crawls onto the bed.

Hawke is typically a light sleeper. She shared a glass of wine with Isabela before going to bed but Isabela doubts this as the reason for her deep sleep. At least the day is over. It's important to get through particular days. Isabela brushes the hair from Hawke's face. What had Carver felt when he cut her face open? Does Hawke think of him every time she sees the scar in the mirror?

Isabela kisses her tenderly. Moments later there is a flicker of a response. Does Hawke think it a dream? Hawke slips her arms around her waist, pulling her closer. They kiss slowly, a soft moan passing her lips. Isabela is straddling her, hands cupping her face when Hawke's eyes flutter open.

Hawke looks at her as if she doesn't recognize her. When she does recognize her she's confused. Their lips brush together again, brief and light. "What are you doing here?" Hawke's voice is tired and raspy. "It's early."

"You're complaining?" She buries her face in Hawke's neck. "I never left." Isabela wonders whether Hawke draws breath at the revelation or her lips. "Did you think I was someone else?" Hawke's hands slow along her back. Isabela looks at her face, waiting for a response. Hawke shakes her head, beginning to undo the corset. "I want to talk to you about Zevran."

Hawke's fingers clamp tightly around her. "You want to fuck him again?"

Isabela lifts Hawke's chin, forcing her to meet her eyes. "I want you to listen to me. I've been thinking about this all night. Even you mounting Aveline wasn't enough to distract me." Hawke's face is comically puzzled before appearing to recall their previous conversation. "I… don't usually talk about this. You know about my mother. I was still a girl when I was married to Luis. I didn't…have many experiences. He didn't give a damn about me. I was just entertainment for him and his friends. I used to hate sex. In the beginning my inexperience was part of the novelty for those sick fucks." She stops. She doesn't know for how long before Hawke touches her face, pulling her back to the moment. "When Zevran killed him, he freed me. I told you before how I thanked him," her eyes don't quite meet Hawke's. "That was the first time I ever enjoyed sex. Zevran is an artist. He made me realize that having this body wasn't just a curse—that you could draw pleasure from it. Everything we did was on my terms. He made me realize I could have a choice. That I could live life my way. He saved me, Hawke."

Hawke settles her hands on Isabela's legs. "I don't know what to say." Isabela doesn't know if there's anything she wants her to say. She shakes her head. "I suppose I could have shown my appreciation for him longer."

Isabela giggles. "You didn't know." She trails her fingers along Hawke's hands. "I wanted to tell you that in case you were jealous." She sighs. "I… suppose I should have talked to you about it before I blurted it out in front of everyone." Merrill and Aveline hadn't looked thrilled at the prospect. Isabela wonders if her questions over any lingering feelings Hawke may have for Merrill was what prompted the demand for sex from Zevran. Did she want to make Hawke jealous? Did she want to show Merrill that she has laid claim to her? So much so that Hawke's willing to make Merrill uncomfortable? Is she terrible? Their friendship hasn't quite recovered. In a way, she still sees Merrill as a threat. "Did you really have fun?" There's a flash of uncertainty in Hawke's eyes. "It's all right."

She nods. "I did." She frowns. "Did you?"

Isabela moves lip but don't speak 'yes'. Hawke relaxes. "Were you jealous?" Isabela isn't sure whether to be grateful that Hawke's unreadable face is usually given away by some involuntary reaction of the body. She doesn't respond. "I wanted to say…" she bites her tongue. "Maybe we shouldn't talk about this now. It's early and…" She starts to slip away from her.

Hawke holds on tight. "I'm awake."

Isabela curses herself for opening up her mouth, for letting herself think too much, for getting too involved. "I've been thinking… I know things have been… different, since I returned. We…" she takes a breath. "It isn't like before. I never meant for things to get the way they did. It was always supposed to be fun. I wanted to say…outside of what happened with Zevran… I haven't been with anyone since returning to Kirkwall." She laughs nervously. "And now it sounds like I'm bragging."

"What are you getting at?"

"Things are…changing between us again. When I came back… there were no expectations. I couldn't ask you for anything because of how I left things when I left. I know I hurt you. I didn't treat you well. I slept around. I was…I was scared. It's a shitty excuse but it's the only one I have." Isabela laces their fingers, afraid that Hawke will pull her hands away.

She doesn't. "What do you want from me?"

"I know what you've been doing before I came back and when I came back and since we've been… Whatever we've been. I don't want you doing it anymore." Isabela has never asked anyone to be faithful to her. She asked Luis once before she knew better. Before she didn't prefer for him to turn his attention elsewhere. She never cared before. She never considered herself attached. "What we did with Zevran… we did that together. And…in the future, who knows? Maybe we'll have more fun in that way with someone… together but for now… I don't want to do it anymore. I don't want you to do it anymore. Whatever you have with Merrill…" she forces the words out. "I want it over with."

"And if I don't stop?" Hawke asks.

Isabela feels nauseas and tired. "I don't know. Are you serious about this?"

"Do you want me to be?"

She adjusts how she sits. She wishes Hawke would stop asking questions she doesn't have the answers to. "No—I mean. I don't know. It'd be something new. Different for us. I know it's early. You're barely awake." She hates how nervous her laugh sounds. She wishes Hawke didn't mean anything to her. That this didn't mean anything to her, that she'd never brought it up. "Just… think about it."

"Okay."

"You'll think about it?"

"No." She clears her throat, lifts her face to look at her. "Let's try it. This whole…monogamy thing." Her hands begin to work on Isabela's corset. "Anything else we can decide together." She looks conflicted.

"You're not sure."

"I don't want to screw things up."

"You think you'll slip?" Isabela asks. It's what she would mean by the words. Hawke nods. "If I can do it, you can. Maybe, anyway… We'll work on it. If you want to work on it." Another nod. Hawke's fingers are trembling along her back, fumbling with the corset. Isabela reaches back to help her.

Her face is hot. The sunrise begins to splash the walls with color. Their lips come together tentatively. It's been a long time since they've undressed each other. Hawke has pressed her to walls and pulled her knickers down. She's ripped her clothes away and taken her on a bed before leaving her to go fuck in Hightown. It's been fun. It's only that Isabela's wanted something more. She isn't sure what that is. She isn't sure it's anything she's ever had or wanted.

She knows some part of her hurt when Hawke disrobed for Zevran. Hawke hasn't bared herself to Isabela since she returned to Kirkwall. Not that she can blame her. All she knows that she wants this to work. Is she wrong for not wanting to share Hawke? What's wrong with her? When did she become like this?

Maybe love is supposed to be selfish, jealous and possessive. Not that this is love. Not really. Maker. Why do people aspire to this? Why is she terrified and sailing in one?


	22. Chapter 22

The ladder is a rickety, shambling thing with wood too worn to be safe. Merill watches from the bed, a tome half her weight spread across her lap. She's paler and smaller than usual. Her face is wrought in concern. She wrings her hands nervously. Hawke nearly loses her balance. Panic spikes across Merrill's features. "Creators, at this rate I'll kill you. What with the clan and leaky roofs…" she murmurs, "errant spells when I trip over things…"

Rain falls on Hawke's face through the crack in the ceiling. She can't think of the number of times she's patched Merrill's roof. A new leak springs when it's least expected, in the coldest, windiest of times. They never stop. "You haven't killed me yet."

"Thank the Creators!" Merrill closes the massive book and with some effort pushes it off her lap. Hawke aligns a nail over the block of wood and begins to hammer it as well as she can. The angle is awkward and if she isn't careful she'll drive the hammer into her head. "I'm always surprised by all these things you can do. I should have had you teach me…then maybe I wouldn't always have to bother you."

"It's no bother."

"You say that now… but you wouldn't have before."

Hawke finishes hammering the nail. Maybe she'll fall and snap her neck and life will stop being so bloody complicated. That would be easy. Each swing of the hammer makes the ladder wobble dangerously. It makes her feel reckless.

"I'm glad things are better," Merrill continues. "It's always been strange that way between us. They get better and worse and sometimes I think you'll kill me but you haven't yet," she bites her lip. "I'm glad. Living has its advantages and… no matter what, maybe there's still some way to help my clan." Hawke batters another nail in. "Maybe I should learn these kinds of things. Building and creating. I never planned to spend my life in a city. I spent my entire life training to become the Keeper and now what? I can't even patch a roof. I'm rambling again, sorry."

"That's just your way," Hawke says softly. "My father taught me how to patch things up around the home. He always had to take odd little jobs at any little town. We moved often because of Bethany and me. When he died, it was up to me." She remembers going from home to home in Lothering, offering her services, begging any small amount of coin to be able to provide for her family. Bethany and Carver were young.

"It must have been hard. What about your mother?"

"Father's death devastated her. I heard her crying through the walls." She never let them see it. She said encouraging things but her eyes were rimmed red. "Lothering is small. She tried…but the only available jobs were for wives whose husbands had gone to war or older couples who couldn't manage it. It seemed silly to ask her to do that sort of work. She wouldn't know how."

"I'm sorry. She was a lovely woman," she pushes the blanket away and slides to the edge of the bed. "She would visit me in the alienage, you know. When she visited your uncle. She'd bring me bread and other little things to eat. Butter sometimes. It was delicious. I was so lucky." Hawke looks at her. Merrill winces. "She was like a mother to all of us, in her own little way. I didn't want to tell you. I thought… you'd be angry. It was the only nice thing I had in Kirkwall. Isabela and I weren't very close then and you and I…"

Her mother never mentioned it. Merrill never mentioned it. Yet it seems like something her mother would do. "It's all right. I was wrong to throw you out of her funeral. I was…"

"I know. I understand."

Hawke climbs down the ladder and turns it on its side, resting it against the wall. She taps the flat end of the hammer against her palm and sets it down, taking a seat beside her on the bed. Merrill watches her. Hawke regrets sitting. It's habit. A bad habit. Is Merrill thinking of when she came around to do little things around her home only a year ago? How often had they ended up clutching to one another on the small bed? They never said much. Merrill would touch her face and look her in the eyes. It felt… Hawke isn't sure. Terrifying, maybe. Perfect, maybe.

"Your new armor is so scary," Merrill touches the metal shoulder piece, her fingers drawing down to the gloves. The talon-like tips are enough to slice a person's face open, luckily for Hawke and unluckily for her would-be attackers. Merrill takes a breath at the sharpness. Hawke delicately breaks the contact. "Are you all right? You seem awfully thoughtful. Not that you don't normally look to be thinking…but even so."

"I have a lot on my mind."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Hawke doesn't know how to talk about it, much less with Merrill. She changes the subject and hopes Merrill doesn't notice. "That slaver in Hightown the other night got you pretty good," Hawke's eyes flick to Merrill's side, where Marethari's blade slipped in. It wasn't fully healed but it was on its way. The thugs come out in waves recently, all intent on ending her it seems. One snuck up on Merrill. Luckily he only slammed a knee into her side. If he'd been smart enough to strike with the blade… Hawke presses a hand to Merrill's side. Heat radiates from her. "Do you need healing?"

"I—ah," her face reddens, "no. I'm fine. Really. Thank you. You've done enough." Her attention flickers to Hawke's hand.

Hawke removes it. "Have you ever heard of Sela Petrae? Or Drakestone?" Hawke thinks of Anders. He was clever to come to her when she could barely think straight. She's always thought him to be a menace. She doesn't trust him. She will never trust him. But if there is some manner of taking Justice from him… isn't it her obligation to help him? Before he harms someone? Merrill looks at her curiously. "Have you ever heard of a way to…remove a spirit from a person?"

"Oh yes. It usually calls for a nice decapitation to the host. No… Sela Petrae or Drakestone," she tests the words out, expression muddled. Her face brightens. "Ooh, or going into the Fade and doing battle with…whatever spirit." Merrill waits. She looks at her cautiously. Her voice goes quiet. "Is this…about you…? And the Wounded Coast? Are you worried? Because we killed that desire demon. It's gone. You're all right now." Merrill takes her hands, grimacing when she comes in contact with the vicious edges.

Hawke hates the reminder. She fell prey to a demon and swore then to never touch magic again. Weeks later she dueled the Arishok. Could she stop herself if she wanted to? She casts magic frequently these days, with less thought for the lives she claims. It used to eat her up. She used to hold back. Her companions used to question her abilities. They don't anymore. She wanted to be made tranquil once. She doesn't anymore. Is she becoming radical…?

There are far greater terrors than mages. Even if she can't think of anything more frightening than Anders or sitting on a bed with Merrill. She tenses thinking of Isabela. Their new arrangement is…different…after so many years of meaning nothing to her. After more than a year of taking whichever person she desired to bed. That was easy. It felt good. She felt nothing. Sometimes it's good to be numb. Isabela's promises are as good as hers are. How long until they both screw it up again? It's difficult to look at Merrill.

"Have you seen that assassin again? The elf," Merrill adds helpfully. She focuses on her fingers, crisscrossed with scars. "That must have been… well, I don't know. Exciting. Isabela has always been that way—fun and daring. Bold. Not like me. Imagine, doing those kinds of things. Not that you have to imagine. I have to imagine—but I haven't—" she stops. Hawke is dangerously close to smiling. "How was it? You don't have to tell me, I imagine that's private. Although, you did let it all out there. In front of everybody," she laughs nervously.

"Merrill."

"Sorry. I don't know why I keep saying these things." She bows her head. "Seeing you and Isabela like that… with that man." Her forehead knits. "I don't know." Hawke doesn't react. Despite the armor her chest tightens painfully. "I'm going to be alone forever, you know. I knew that before. It didn't matter. I had a purpose. I had my clan. I don't have anything anymore." Hawke's throat is dry. "Are you happy?"

The question is unexpected and confounding. She can't remember the last time she thought about happiness. When did she give up on having it? After her family died? After Isabela left? Is she happy…? "No. I don't know." Hawke touches her face. The tips of her gloves dig into Merrill's skin. No matter how careful Hawke may be, it must hurt her.

Merrill takes a deep, trembling breath. "That's cold."

 

x

 

"What's this?"

Isabela traces the red scrawl on Hawke's arm. Hawke looks at the markings as if she doesn't know where they've come from. It scares Isabela that she might not know. It scares her that Hawke may have become at skilled at lying as she is.

They sit at the small table in Isabela's room, a plate of food between them. Hawke leans across the table and kisses her. The kiss is barely there and Isabela wonders if the ferocity of a kiss is tied to the intensity of her emotions. Hawke sits, absently taking a sip of wine. Isabela smiles faintly. "What's the matter with you?" She fiddles with her earring. She's worn it down over the years with thoughts of Hawke. Hawke looks at her. "You're being…weird. Are you bored?"

"Of what?"

Isabela is too embarrassed to say the words aloud. Maybe she's afraid. She always thought Hawke would get bored all those years ago, not after she asked for exclusivity. Maybe that's the worst thing about it. "Is it a blood magic thing?" she asks. Hawke frowns. It's a reaction. It's something. It's possible she's being too sensitive. She's too cautious.

"It's something Merrill did, that's all. It doesn't mean anything." Hawke picks up the bottle of wine and tips it. Nothing comes out and she sets it down with an aggravated sigh. She stands and paces before moving to the door. Isabela gets to her feet far too quickly. "Another bottle, then?" Her hand settles on the doorknob.

"No. Forget it." Isabela pulls the red sash from her arm, threading it through her fingers. "Do you remember when you gave this to me?"

"The cave with the spiders. Looking for your 'relic'. You hurt your arm." A small, sardonic smile pulls at Hawke's lips.

Isabela is relieved to see it. Hawke's been morose lately. She's seemed…lost and unhappy. Then again, she hasn't seemed happy since Isabela returned. Her smiles are rare, unless they're turned towards those Hightown women, itching to get into her underclothes. Does she miss fucking them? Does she prefer them? They have soft silks, perfumes, satin sheets, titles and the only walls around them circle their homes. "That's right, sweet thing." The endearment looks to puzzle her and Isabela feels badly for it. Has she been so cold for so long? "Did you have a talk with Merrill?" And just like that, her eyes go distant again. Isabela winds the ribbon around her hand. "Maybe _I_  ought to have a talk with Merrill."

"About?"

Isabela hesitates. She hadn't thought explanations were necessary. Neither one of them are good at talking. Hawke wasn't and then was and is now monosyllabic when she can help it. Isabela thought not sleeping around would make her feel better. Now she's more insecure than ever. She doesn't know how to say what she means to say. "Is this how I made you feel all those years ago? I'm sorry." Hawke drops her gaze. She throws the ribbon carelessly on the bed. Has she become sentimental? How pathetic. "Are you in love with her?" Hawke leans against the door and crosses her arms. "You'll answer the question this time won't you? I like your hand between my legs as well as any other Hightown girl—but the same trick won't work twice."

She looks majestic in that Champion Armor. Varric bored her with the details of Champions past, of the armor, enchanted in some way or another. Isabela is proud of her. Hawke came to Kirkwall with nothing and accomplished enough to make herself one of the most revered figures in the city. It makes Isabela feel further away from her. The Champion's Armor is just a reminder of how different they are. Hawke could have anyone. Why her? Why Merrill?

"I'm not used to any of this," Hawke leaves the door. Isabela hopes that she's abandoned any notions of scurrying away for wine. She's left for wine before only never to return, never to explain. Balls. They have had a shitty year.

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I've got." She retrieves the red ribbon. "Remember our first time together?" Hawke shakes her head and Isabela isn't sure what it is she regrets. Isabela wonders now what might have changed if she hadn't blindfolded her. "That was almost ten years past. It feels like a lifetime ago." Isabela bites her lip, tongue nervously teasing along the stud in her mouth. "We were so young. Emotionally, I mean. I think I fell in love with you then. You made me feel different. You made me feel happy. There was no one else. Until last year there was no one else. I wish I knew how to feel that way again. I wish I knew how to feel anything again."

Isabela exhales shakily and tries to ignore the burning of her eyes. She thought she did the right things. She has been as open with her feelings as she can be. She has been faithful to her. Is it not enough? She clears her throat but doesn't think there's anything she means to say. What is there to say? "You don't want this? You don't want… us?"

"I don't know what I want. I want to want this. I want to want you." Hawke sighs. She brings a hand to her mouth as if to block any other thing that might cut into her. Will it be enough? "I'm not saying any of this the right way." She wipes her face with her hand and takes a seat on the bed. "I told Merrill." She narrows her eyebrows. "I told Merrill that… nothing could happen between us again. I told her that I wanted for you and I to work. I do. I don't…feel it but I know it." She brings a hand to her chest. "It hurt, doing that. I meant it but it hurt. It hurt her. I kissed her." Isabela's heart drops. "I wanted to take her to bed but I didn't. Maybe it's habit. I hate hurting her. She's the strongest person I know. Sometimes she's so small. I'm afraid she will be alone forever and that scares me. It's unfair. She's all right. She's…" once again she shakes her head. "I've always been so unfair to her."

"I'm a bad influence."

"She misses you." Hawke says. Isabela doesn't want to think about that. It makes her feel like a monster. Blast. Why her? Why bloody Merrill? Why not someone she could cut out of her life and not have it matter? "When you were gone she made me feel like somebody could give a damn about me."

Isabela's legs are unsteady. Hawke's words have left her feeling like tenderized meat. Somehow she takes a seat next to Hawke on the bed. "Why did you do it?" She grabs Hawke's arm. Hawke has pressed her against a wall with that armor. It's as bad as Fenris', spiky and pointy, painful and exciting. Isabela's fingers glide along the belts that hold the glove in place but don't undo them. Hawke gives her no response. "What do you do with those Hightown women? Are they all prigs? Or are they secretly filthy?"

"Some are," her smile comes again, damning and dark. Isabela hates her, hates herself more for asking the question and then letting it sting. "What do you care?"

"Do they let you tie them up? Do you roleplay Templar and apostate?"

"I don't need to roleplay that," she says directly. "Drop it, Isabela." She wads the ribbon in her hand. Her mood grows fouler by the moment. Isabela doesn't know whether the questions come from curiosity or jealousy. She isn't sure how to read Hawke's responses. Has she slept with Templars? Or did she mean she never would? Does it matter? No, she supposes it doesn't. Still. She does worry. "Take off your clothes," Hawke commands softly.

Isabela meets her eyes for a long time. "No." Hawke pulls back. "You take your clothes off. Go on." Hawke stands dutifully, her expression puzzled as she starts to strip her armor. Isabela's throat is dry. Piece by piece the armor falls away until she stands in her small clothes. Her eyes dart every which way. Isabela can't recall a time when she was dressed while Hawke was not. "You're beautiful."

Hawke takes a breath. Isabela keeps their eyes locked as she parts with the clothing she wears: the bandana and the corset, the boots and the dress until they stand apart but equal. Hawke's eyes are fueled by something more than desire. It's with a sickening dread that Isabela realizes that she wants Hawke to love her, only her. Maybe in time. Maybe. Hawke is worth the wait.

Hawke's hands tentatively come to her waist, easing along her sides. She kisses her shoulder. She kisses her neck. Isabela's eyes close, wanting to drown in the sensation, wanting to think that there is nobody else. "You scare me," Hawke says.

Hadn't Isabela said the same thing to her months ago? "The feeling is mutual."

They kiss, apprehensively, as if it were their first time. Lately it always feels like the first time. It isn't clumsy. It's never that. If Isabela knew magic, she imagines this is what it would feel like. But better, without the threat of demons or Templars or any of those other killjoy things. There's a terrible excitement about it that makes every part of her hurt in anticipation.

"None of those Hightown girls hold a candle to you," Hawke murmurs into her ear.

The words, simple enough, make Isabela's heart skip a beat. "I'd bend their arms backwards and smash them into a table if they tried." Hawke smiles before their mouths meet ardently. Soon they're on the bed, stripping each other naked. Rain patters against the window but the fireplace rages. Isabela's relieved. "Cross your wrists and lean back." Hawke looks at her. Isabela pulls a silk red scarf from her night table. "Don't you trust me?" She did before. They did this before.

"Shouldn't we have a safe word?"

"You know what safe words are now?" She isn't sure whether to be amused or jealous. She remembers when the word wasn't in her vocabulary. It was a comfortable numbness then.

Hawke crosses her wrists. Isabela stares. She is a beautiful sight. Isabela straddles her and binds her wrists, pinning them behind her, tying them to the bed. She makes sure the knot is good and she can't get away before running her fingers along her breasts, before bowing her head, bringing Hawke's nipple to a full in her mouth. Hawke gasps.

"No talking. No safe words. Do you agree?"

Eternity passes. Then Hawke nods, straining forward against her bindings. Their mouths meld hotly again and Isabela tells herself that things may turn out after all.

 

x

 

Merrill hates how she apologizes constantly about the state of her place. She does clean it. No one ever seems to come by then. Everything is scattered. It's fitting. But she wishes it were better. Isabela doesn't judge these sorts of things. Merrill does think they have judged one another recently. It's funny. She never thought it'd come to this. Over Hawke of all things. It seems a bit silly.

Isabela looks around. Merrill has studied her movements. She wanted to be like her. Always easy, languid, like some wild animal with ownership over its domain. Now she's stiff, her smile pleasant enough but forced. Her eyes don't shine with their usual mischief. Merrill never thought she'd see Isabela reserved.

"I wasn't expecting you," Merrill says, picking up a stack of books from the bench by the table. "We didn't make plans." Did they? No, they didn't. She can't remember the last time they spoke. Even when they went chasing after the assassin they didn't say much to one another. Having her near is a painful reminder of how much she's missed her. She didn't realize it until just now.

"I thought I'd swing by," she shrugs and moves along the room, back and forth. She looks at the seat Merrill has cleared but doesn't sit. Instead, she rests her hands on her hips, stands on her tiptoes before settling back on the balls of her feet. "How have you been?"

Her voice has an airy quality to it that Merrill has only ever heard when she's glossing over details she doesn't want to get into. Merrill isn't sure what kind of answer Isabela wants. An honest one? Merrill doesn't know if she wants to give an honest response. "As well as I can be," she pushes the hair back from her eyes. It's been growing out lately and she's been so focused on the Eluvian that she hasn't had an opportunity to shear it. "You?"

"Castillon's in Kirkwall. Somewhere."

"Oh. I'm sorry?" Is that what she should say? She doesn't know anymore if Isabela wants to kill him or wants to run away. So many of her troubles are a result of that man. "Does Hawke know?" She says her name too quietly. "Are you okay?"

"Still alive," she says with a gentle smirk. "I…haven't told Hawke yet. She's got enough on her mind." Isabela saunters over, taking a seat on one of the unstable chairs right of where Merrill sits. "She's running around with Anders in the sewers now. Looking for… I can't remember what. Some powder, or something."

"Oh."

"Look. I know things have been…" She taps her fingers on the table, turns her hand. "Nothing's been the same since I came back. I wanted Hawke. And you did what you thought was the right thing and gave her up for me. You told me once that you would do anything for me." She shakes her head. "I didn't know what that meant then. I have Hawke because you're a better person than I am." Merrill's face heats. She bites her tongue. "You were right. I was selfish. Still am," she laughs uncomfortably. "I'm sorry."

Merrill can't keep her hands still. She rubs her legs and gets to her feet.

"I've been so jealous of you since I returned to Kirkwall. I know about all those women in Hightown. Those riches and titles don't mean anything. Not to her. Not compared to you." Isabela sighs. "I just hate all this. You're my best friend. You're not supposed to be competition."

"I'm not." They talked about this before. Sort of, anyway. Merrill apologized. She had been so rude to her. It wasn't right. Isabela has always been the most important person to her in Kirkwall. Isabela deserves happiness. She often says that Merrill is the better person but she doesn't know if that's true. Maybe everyone has good and bad to them and trying to put labels on it just makes things harder.

"I think Hawke is—" Isabela looks at her worriedly. "I—. She—It's different than before. How do you feel about her?" She stands.

Merrill has always wanted Isabela's life. It's impossible to believe that anyone could ever be jealous of her existence. "I love you both. I want the best for you. That's all." She doesn't know if she's lying. She doesn't know how she feels anymore.

Isabela nods. "Listen to me going on. I didn't come here for this." She runs a hand through her hair. "Is it all right that I came?" Merrill doesn't look at her. "I want you in my life again. Maybe that's too much to ask for. Maybe that's too hard right now."

Her throat is locked. She can't clear the lump in it, fingers curling. She makes them straighten at her side. "My Keeper is dead. She was like a mother to me. She's dead because of me and my clan hates me. Do you think this is the worst I've endured?" Merrill asks. "How weak do you think I am?" she hates how her voice gets shrill when she's emotional. She hadn't wanted to get emotional today. At least she still can. That's something. She still can't believe Marethari is gone. "You're the one who has avoided me."

Isabela raises her hands. "You're right. You're right. I'm sorry. Remember when being friends was easy?"

She doesn't. It is easier to summon lightning from the sky than to make friends. She's always too weird or too obsessed with some part of her culture. Even the flat ears don't like her. It's easy for her to drive others away. "You're the only friend I've ever had. Well. You and Mahariel." She shakes her head. "I'm just an inconvenience to everyone else." She scratches her forehead. "I'm not good with people."

"Those people you're not good with can sod off." Isabela stands in front of her. "Anyway. I didn't mean to interrupt. Maybe next time I'll barge in here with good news. Maybe," she smiles wanly. "I don't know what to say. I know things are …hard between us right now. I don't know how to fix them. I don't know if they can be fixed. But… you're important to me. There must be some way, right?"

Is there a way? Does it matter? Why is she still in Kirkwall? She can't fix the Eluvian anymore. She can't return to her clan. No one in Kirkwall will ever accept her. She's lost Hawke. Hawke who told her it was over then kissed her. Her lips were warm, soft and urgent. She could have had her if she'd wanted her. She wanted her. Merrill tries not to feel miserable. Isabela looks so uncertain. "I'm sure everything will be all right."


	23. Chapter 23

A/N: Short chapter! With smut, I think.

 

x

 

Castillon is handing over the papers to the ship when Hawke strikes. She uses no magic or dagger. Her bare hands simply take hold of his face, sweaty from battle and turns it forcefully until there's a loud snap.

Isabela yells out her name. Hawke stares down at the man twisted at her feet, bones sticking unnaturally from his neck. This is the man who tormented Isabela for years. This is the man who made them both liars.

Hawke supposes that it was all rather personal in that way. Isabela's furious and storms away. Aveline clucks her disapproval. Fenris thinks she's done well. "You do it with more finesse," Hawke tells him. She supposes the one thing they'll only ever have in common is their hatred for slavers.

Castillon likely would have anticipated her if she drew a dagger or her staff. Everyone forgets that mages can fight like anyone else. They expect mages to cower, they never plan for when they're angry.

 

x

Isabela is several sheets to the wind when Hawke strolls into the Hanged Man. The woman is so unbelievably arrogant, especially since Isabela left Kirkwall three years ago. Isabela wonders, wryly, what did it. The power or the pussy?

All she knows is that she needs to drink a whole brewery of this rat piss to flush the anger away. There's so much of it that she can scarcely contain it. Does Hawke know her at all? Is she an idiot for wanting to build a life with her?

The thought leaves her stunned and dizzy. No, it's the alcohol. No, no, no, definitely not the alcohol. Or is it? Hawke moves towards her but Isabela can't look at her now. The sea is her life. She bloody hates Kirkwall. What will she do without that ship? What will she have? Hawke, who can't figure what the bloody void she wants?

Isabela sneaks behind the bar towards the room in the back where barrels of beer are kept. She's flushed with heat, booze and anger and she can't keep still. Corff is long used to Isabela going behind the bar, Hawke is another story altogether.

Isabela hears a brief dispute and then what sounds like someone being pushed into a wall before Hawke is there. Isabela is pleased in a way. Here stands the Champion of Kirkwall, chasing her down to no doubt one of the shittiest areas in Thedas. Isabela plants her hands at her hips and paces. "I don't even want to look at you," she starts. "How could you? Who do you think you are? You can't make bloody decisions about my life. I've had enough people choose for me. Who do you think you are?" She asks again, angrier still.

"If you don't want me interfering, don't ask for my help." Hawke crosses over to her and puts a hand to her neck. Isabela sighs and lowers her eyes, irritated how Hawke's touch soothes her. Hawke finds the bruise on her face. Isabela hadn’t known what she was asking for when she told Hawke to make it convincing. For a few hours she'd been terrified. Maybe this was payback for all the things she did throughout the years. Hawke had been so convincing that even now Isabela isn't sure it was all an act. She'd been elated and relieved to see her at the warehouse. And just as quickly Hawke had crushed her dreams, spirits and desires. "How's the Champion of Kirkwall's swing?" Hawke asks.

"You refer to yourself in the third person now?" She rolls her eyes. "It felt like a kiss," Isabela mutters and digs the toe of her boot into the dirty floor. "How could you take that ship from me? Do you hate me?" She looks at her. Hawke isn't one to hold back the difficult truths lately. She waits for sharp words.

"I wanted you to have it."

"You have a lousy way of showing it."

"If I had let him walk away he could have returned to hound you. I couldn't let that happen. We can get another ship." She palms her face and Isabela feels the bruising and swelling of her face disappear. With the throbbing gone she can finally move her jaw.

"I wanted  _that_  one."

"Too bad." She's still as Isabela rolls her fist and pounds it gently into her shoulder. "I'll make it up to you."

"You can't." Isabela closes her eyes and leans into her. Hawke strokes her hair. Her lips find Isabela's mouth and soon Isabela finds herself bent over a crate, her white dress riding up along her thighs, Hawke's lips along her shoulder, fingers stroking between her legs. Isabela holds tightly to the edges of the crates, breath coming in sharp, gasping waves.

She never knows if she's dirtying Hawke when they do these sorts of things or if Hawke is somehow lifting her above her station. She remembers years ago when Hawke would have fretted over not being on a bed. Everything's different now. They've thrown shame to the wind. Her thoughts scatter, battling against the pleasure Hawke pulls from her body. She no longer knows what she ought to focus on.

She had  _wanted_  that bloody ship. She had wanted it, she thought, more than anything else. It's over now. It took nearly a decade but it's done and she knows that no matter how the matter was settled, she's relieved. Castillon is no longer hanging over her head, the bastard.

A tremendous weight has been lifted from her shoulders. It isn't only the happy effect of an orgasm beginning to take hold of her body. Can she begin to imagine a life where she isn't constantly on the run? Not having a ship won't make it impossible but it will certainly make it less enjoyable. Hawke wraps an arm around her shoulder until they're pressed violently to each other, Isabela grinding desperately against Hawke's thrusting and stroking fingers. Stupid Hawke, holding her down like some sodding anchor.

It really shouldn't happen. A weight may be gone but Hawke has taken any mobility. Isabela gets carried away. The sensation, along with Hawke's breath in her ear, the desire in her eye, her stare is enough to make every part of Isabela pulse and quiver. Maybe a good fuck is like a drug that leaves your brain addled.

So much feeling is coursing through her, Hawke's fingers gripping her chin, tongue pushing gently into her mouth against her own despite the intensity of her fingers. Hawke killed a man for her today, a menace who threatened her for nearly a decade. "Why are you fighting it?" Hawke asks softly. Fuck Hawke for knowing she's fighting it. Her eyes are so light, so clear. Why now, in this room? "You want to come. Don't fight it," Hawke breathes into her ear.

Isabela can hear the patrons of the Hanged Man shouting and laughing. She means to say deny it but appears to have no control over the situation. She can't help vocalizing her climax, even if she were a delicate shy type. Hawke's name falls from her lips. Nothing strange there. Except she doesn't typically use her first name. After all this time, it still affects her. Hawke kisses her, fingers still pumping into her, drawing more fierce shaking orgasms from her. Isabela bites down hard on Hawke's lip to keep from shouting, drawing blood.

"Maker. Oh, Maker, I love you." The words are out before she can stop them. Hawke stills, blood running down her lip and chin. Isabela can feel her fingers stop inside her. Her heart ratchets. Isabela reaches back and closes her eyes, bringing Hawke closer to her, afraid of the distance that may begin to grow between them.

Hawke rests her chin on Isabela's shoulder, breathing as raggedly as she might during a fight, during a hard won battle.

"I shouldn't have said it," Isabela fights the sinking feeling in her stomach. If only she'd had some control on whether she voiced the feelings or not. It's been at the back of her mind since she returned. The two have fucked like animals for months now but it's never been this good, she's never felt this free. Maybe she owes that freedom to Hawke. Maybe it's what makes her grateful. Loved. Maybe it was the clarity in Hawke's eyes after so many months of shadows.

"Let's go to your room. Pick out a few things before we head to Hightown for the night."

The response boggles Isabela. She's just said what she's been holding back for years and Hawke wants her to what? Grab another corset? Grab a toothbrush? Maybe this is her response to the words. Isabela has never stayed the night. Not in her bed, not with some disclaimer that implied Hawke hadn't laid claim to her. In stories when a person confesses love, the other will return the words and they go off into the sunset together. Well, she has no bloody ship and this isn't like the typical stories, she supposes. It's night and she's behind the bar at the Hanged Man, still bent over a crate. Romantic. "All right," Isabela says.

Hawke's arm slides to her waist, wrapping around it. She breathes softly onto her neck. It isn't the response Isabela wanted but it's enough. Finally her fingers slip out of her. Isabela misses their absence. With Hawke's hands atop of her own she slides the dress down. Her legs tremble. Isabela wipes the blood from Hawke's chin. Hawke sucks on her split lip. Together they exit into the brightness of the Hanged Man. Hawke doesn't hold her hand but she remains close.


	24. Chapter 24

The room is free of clutter. Hawke remembers when a stack of boxed hats sat in the corner gathering dust. Now the room has little soul. Hawke burned her ship in a bottle. She did as much with the other ship Isabela may have gotten from Castillon. The room barely looks lived in. Shouldn't she have noticed before? She would have noticed years ago but these days she rarely comes by unless it's for a fuck. She does come more frequently. She smiles wryly at that, eyes raking over the room. It would take minutes to pack it all up and go. Hawke wonders if that's the real reason she killed Castillon and any opportunity of Isabela having that ship.

Isabela loves her. The ship is gone. The Tome of Koslun is no longer an obstacle. Hawke's stopped fucking Hightown nobles. Hawke wonders what Isabela is getting at. What she wants. Try as she might Hawke can't think of anything. She got a fuck in the back room of the Hanged Man. That was enough once.

Is Isabela looking to barter? She's always got a backup plan. Even if it's terrible. Isabela is a liar. She once told her she was a lying, thieving snake. What game is she playing? What can she possibly want? Is it currency? What had that Witch of the Wilds said?  _You speak the word as if it were cheap coin, meant for spending._  It had once been Hawke's impression of Isabela as well, despite how indignant Isabela was. Everyone in Kirkwall wants something. Even her friends have wanted and needed from her. Isabela is no different.

"Found my toothbrush," Isabela waves it for her. "I'm surprised at you, Hawke. I thought you'd have an accessible collection in stock for...company." Isabela's eyes search the sparse room.

"I got rid of it."

"Really?" She smiles quizzically. "What about your fellow country men with the rotting teeth? You'd rather rid yourself of the collection than share it?"

"I don't care about my fellow country-men's teeth." Yes, she's Fereldan. But what was her life there like? Constant running, constant worry that she'd be handed over to the Templars. It was a life of paranoia and fear. Kirkwall loves her almost as much as she hates it. No matter what she may want, this is her home now. "Is that all you're taking?"

"I'm visiting, not moving in. Unless you want to add some friend fiction to your library. I wrote one about you and Fenris having some broody sex. I've made revisions to it in the last year," she yanks a drawer open and pulls out a thin bound stack of papers. "Here," she stands in front of Hawke, turning the pages for her benefit. "Initially Fenris was in charge." She turns to a page where there's a drawing of her sitting on Fenris' back, a chain in hand, Fenris is on hands and knees, a collar bound around his neck. "You've been domineering lately. I thought you could get in touch with your Tevinter roots."

"I'm not from Tevinter."

"Oh, you know what I mean."

"I'd rather play this little scene out with you. Not the jaded elven slave who hates me enough as it is. Do me a favor and don't show this to him."

"You don't like it?"

"Don't show it to him," she says again.

"You're more uptight than he is." She snaps the small booklet shut. "I'll bring it up. It's not like he can read. Just stuff it into a bookshelf and it will never see the light of day." Hawke tries to fight the discomfort she feels. "You know… chaining someone usually implies some sense of ownership. I'm rather fond of my freedoms."

"Yet you think of love as a prison." It's the first time she's acknowledged the words. Hadn't she wanted to hear them for years? It wasn't like what she imagined. There was a time when she wanted nothing more. Isabela smiles distractedly.

"You and I had fun in a prison once. Back when you were a good girl." Isabela faces her, fingers weaving through the fur of the Champion's Mantle she wears. She wraps her arms around her neck. "I thought you were dragging me to Hightown. Are you putting it off?" Hawke thinks she may be. "About what I said earlier—"

"Will it only be the toothbrush?" Hawke asks.

Isabela glances away from her face. "You know, you don't have to—"

"Let's get going then."

x

Isabela feels as if she's being made to walk the plank, legs and arms bound, tied to heavy weight. Large flakes of snow spiral down softly. Hawke walks slightly ahead and apart from her. Isabela wonders if she has doubts. She curses herself for letting the words slip. She wonders how it is that people cast the words loose like weapons, like traps. She is the one who feels as if a noose is tied round her neck.

Nobles move past them, all greeting Hawke warmly before casting curious glances at her. Isabela doesn't think they know they're together. It's a strange thing to think that she's 'together' with anyone. Or maybe she only wants to be. Hawke hasn't said anything like that to her. Hawke made commitments to her, at her request, perhaps begrudgingly. The Hightown women and men with their colognes and perfumes, their silken dresses and suits, faces smoothed by easy lives are nothing like her.

Isabela recognizes that she's getting on in age. Hawke is younger. Is this the approach of a mid-life crisis? Is this wanting to settle down? Love is a feverish madness. She has never felt so ill in all of her life. She can read the knowing smiles of some of the women who pass by, younger, prettier. Did they lie down as Hawke asked? Did she even have to ask? Did they excite her? Blast this confounding jealousy.

"Viktoria," a comely woman says, Antivan and dark with bright green eyes. "Have you plans this evening? There's a party at the DeLauncet's. I remember our last gathering there fondly."

Hawke doesn't get red in the face. Isabela is irritated by the woman's sense of familiarity. She's Hawke to Kirkwall. Viktoria only to a few. Does she toss that name out at parties like a favor? Isabela debates whether she's angrier at the Antivan or at Hawke. "I'm afraid I'm spoken for this evening." She glances at Isabela. "Have you met Isabela?" Isabela reads the surprise in the woman's face. What is she thinking? Too old? Too common? She thinks to take the toothbrush she stupidly holds and put it through the woman's eye. "She's a pirate queen. Quite the menace, actually."

The Antivan doesn't know what to do with the words and makes an excuse to be on her way. Isabela looks after her. "I'm a menace, am I?"

"I don't think you know any other way."

"I was soft once."

"You aren't anymore." But as soon as she's said the words she looks as if she's reconsidering.

x

Hawke slides the friend fiction in between books of magic, books of law. It's appropriate in a way. She's nauseous. It may have all been a mistake. Isabela has gone upstairs to take a bath. Hawke makes her way to the kitchen and hastily pours herself a glass of wine. She downs it too quickly, making her head pulse and ache. The sweet and dry taste is wrapped around her tongue.

Her mother, the dear, sweet thing had liked Isabela, accepted her beyond all reason. A woman, a pirate, a cheat, a thief.  _She has a good heart._  Hawke has battled what she believes of the woman for years. She pours another glass of wine and brings it to her lips, the sharp, heavy aroma filling her senses. She sets it down with trembling fingers and brushes her fingers over her face.

Straightening, she takes the steps upstairs. She has dueled dragons with less reservation. In her bedroom she removes the mantle piece, the clawed gauntlet, the rest of her armor, until she is left in only pants and a shift. She paces. Eventually moves to the bathroom. Isabela sits in the clawed bathtub, beneath the bubbles, hands resting languidly at the sides. "What, no wine?" she asks.

Hawke kisses her. "That's all I brought."

"You're stingy," she nods towards the water. "Get in. It's big enough for the two of us." Isabela bunches the material of the shift in her hand, pulling her closer and closer. "You smell of blood," she says more quietly.

"You didn't notice before."

"I never notice anything in the moment." She presses further back against the wall as Hawke slips into the water, clothing and all. "Don't tell me you won't be hospitable. We were having so much fun earlier." Isabela rubs Hawke's leg with her foot. "You know, I could have stayed in tonight with wine and friend fiction and it would have been more fun than this." She slaps bubbles at her. "And if I have to run into another one of your little Hightown sluts giving me the evil eye I can't be held accountable for what happens."

"You have pretty eyes."

Isabela laughs. "Stop it and let me be angry, damn it."

"I suppose I can't fault you. They gave me much better than just the evil eye." And then, stupidly, she sees a flicker of something in Isabela's face. Hawke feels guilty. She hasn't felt it in so long it's difficult to recognize. She carefully wraps a hand around Isabela's ankle. "I think you were right all those years ago when you said that I was Kirkwall's bitch. Their whore too, apparently."

"Kirkwall's bitch. Hightown's whore." A smile dances on her lips but her eyes are shrouded. "Why Hightown girls? Because they have nice dresses and perfumes?"

"They're too young and stupid to know any better." Hawke doesn't know if she's joking. She only knows that Hightown women are nothing like Isabela. The ones who had a shred of resemblance, a sliver of her bite were rejected time and time again. She straightens her shoulders. "You always come back to this. I don't know how many times I have to say it. I never thought of you as insecure."

"I wasn't until I met you. And why do you always keep your bloody clothes on when you strip me naked?" Isabela casts more bubbles in her direction, some hitting her face. "Only assholes do that. You used to want nothing between us."

"It's what you wanted, too. Have you forgotten?"

Isabela sighs. She shifts, kneeling, finding the hem of Hawke's shirt and pulling up. Hawke obediently raises her arms and watches Isabela drop it to the side. Isabela's hair is curling from the water. "Will you be angry at me forever? My life… everything and everyone I've ever known has been like the waves. They come and they go."

"The Blooming Rose is like that, too. You said that once."

"You're impossible."

Hawke wraps an arm around her waist and turns her so she sits between her legs. She settles her chin in the crook of Isabela's neck. "Imagine tonight had played out differently. Castillon was no longer at your back and you had your ship. It's what you've wanted for near ten years, isn't it? What would you do?"

"I don't know. I'd have to think on it. It's not every day you get what you want."

"Mh."

x

Hawke fucks her with such fervor it's as if she doesn't believe she exists, as if she must prove and discover, determine for herself if she is indeed tangible, if she is real. Isabela is glad. This is what brought them together, isn't it? A wildly spectacular fuck. She prefers this easy but intoxicating navigation to unmapped and tumultuous conversations.

Hawke tries to heal her but Isabela stops her, preferring to hold on to some keepsakes. To make it authentic somehow. Hawke kisses her everywhere when they finish, head against her breasts, listening to her heart, beating like the drums of war. Hawke traces her fingers along Isabela's side, warm breath along her flushed skin. "You loved me years ago," Isabela says. Hawke tenses, rising up enough to look at her. "You were open about it and I laughed at you. I mistreated you. Why did you love me?"

"Is it so difficult to understand?"

"Was it the sex? I was surprised at you. I admit it, I thought about it before you got my knickers off. I thought you'd be a dead fish. It was epic sex. I didn't think it could get better. It did. It has." Why?

Hawke grazes her thumb along Isabela's lower lip, trailing lower to find the stud there. "If it isn't dirty, talking about sex is boring." Isabela switches their positions. Hawke talks tough until Isabela is between her legs, lips, tongue and fingers working to get her off. Hawke grips Isabela's hair, fingers grazing her ears, hips twisting and thrusting. She always opens for her, like a flower. Funny, given all that armor she wears the rest of the time.

Isabela doesn't expect a confession of love and she's lucky because she doesn't get it. What she does get is the taste of herself on Hawke's lips and tongue. They fool around longer, fuck again and then Hawke pulls the covers over them. She presses to Isabela's back and wraps an arm around her waist, lacing their fingers.

Isabela panics. Hawke rests her chin on Isabela's shoulder. "Were you trying to wear me down enough so I couldn't run?" The strength in her legs has been reduced to the fortitude of pudding.

"Did it work?"

x

Isabela doesn't sleep. She lies stiff and paralyzed, moderating her breath until her heart stops racing, until her limbs aren't stiff as boards. Eventually her eyes start to close, no amount of resistance able to keep them open. Hawke is warm against her, breathing soft and even. Why did Hawke want this so much? Isabela strokes Hawke's hand absently before drifting away to restless dreams where ships and Arishoks, greasy slave traders are no longer so insurmountable as she once imagined.

She wakes with Hawke's hand between her legs, lips at her ear and neck, feather light touches. The morning light is pale and ethereal and she wonders if she's still dreaming. She sighs at the sensation rousing her body first and then her consciousness to wake. "You live," Hawke says with another pressing of her lips to her neck. Isabela doesn't know if Hawke's being smart; she turns to look at her. She looks younger, fresher, clearer. Isabela holds a hand to her chest.

"What is it?" Hawke asks.

"Nothing."

Hawke kisses her so softly that Isabela wonders if she's groggy and worn from the rigorous fuck-fest that was the previous night. She's surprised the bed is intact. This, at least, is a benefit to spending the night. No need to make her way all the way up to Hightown (or Lowtown) to make it happen. There is something to be said about the anticipation. Recently she has been anxious for her contact. Maybe she has feared it going away.

Isabela runs her fingers through Hawke's hair, pulling her closer, kissing her deeper. "Are you tired?" Hawke nods and kisses her again. "Did you sleep? I barely had a drop of it. Let's have some wine, break the bed and go to sleep." Hawke smiles, another kiss pressed to her lips. "Did you sleep?" she asks again, the question annoyingly important.

"I kept waking up."

"Not used to company?"

"I think I was too excited." Oh. "I never see you in the morning light. Your eyes are different. Brighter."

"Brighter…?" What the Void is she going on about?

Hawke claims her mouth again. They spend the next few hours that way, wrapped up in one another, around each other, inside each other, trembling and heaving, slow and thorough. They never take their eyes off one another and Isabela searches and waits for a terror that never comes. Only they do, over and over again.

They fall asleep again, worn by their morning activity and when Isabela wakes the sun is brighter than before. It must be afternoon. Hawke isn't in the bed. Isabela yawns, rolling out onto her back, stretching out. It's been years since she slept in such a large bed. Refreshed and invigorated by the nap, she stands and makes her way to the bath. She thinks she'd like another one. She finds the large mirror, an elaborate gold frame around it and studies her naked form. She turns. No matter where she looks, there is no mark, no bruise, no proof.

Isabela doesn't know if it's because Hawke wants to obliterate the memory of what happened or if she can't bear the thought of hurting her. She's confoundingly difficult to read. She doesn't know how to feel about it. She glances back in the bedroom, the mess of tangled sheets are at the foot of the bed. She brushes her teeth and draws a bath, hoping Hawke will return shortly to warm the water for her. Mages are handy for every day needs: killing, stealing, warm baths, hot stews, orgasms.

She's sitting on the edge of the tub, fingers trailing along the water, lamenting her lost ship (though the hurt isn't what she thought it might be) when Hawke enters the room in a panic. "What's the matter with you?" Isabela asks. The alarm melts from her face at spotting her. She's wearing her robe. "Here, come warm this up for me."

Hawke sits next to her, the robe she wears appealingly open. She buries her hand in the water, and Isabela, still gliding her fingers along it feels it warm. Blast. Why couldn't she have been an apostate? She could have made so much coin with it. Isabela stares at her profile, at the ragged scar along her nose, at her eyes, too pale but more recently luminous. "I thought you'd left," Hawke says quietly.

"I'm not going anywhere." Isabela takes hold of the sash around the robe and pulls it loose, letting it fall to the floor. She turns Hawke's face and kisses her. "You're dressed again," Isabela accuses.

"I wanted to make you something to eat. There's nothing," she complains. "I can't remember the last time I ate here." Isabela smirks but Hawke doesn't notice. "I've hated this home since Mother died. If I didn't know how much it meant to her I'd burn it to the ground."

"You nearly have." Isabela palms her face and presses another brief kiss to her lips. "Let's bathe and then go out to one of your flashy restaurants. I want clams. Good ones. Not like that shit at the docks that left me sick for weeks. And I want you to look like a normal person. I'll look like a normal person," she says bitterly.

"Whoever told you I wanted normal?"

"I wouldn't have believed you if you said you did. I'm serious. Look… I want to be someone you're not ashamed to be with."

"I'm not ashamed of you."

"A menacing pirate queen isn't the introduction that most people are expecting. I'm not sure if it's the one I want. I want to be someone you're proud to introduce and show off." Funny how things change. That's what Luis had wanted. She was an ornament on his arm, a toy for his friends. She hated it at the time. Is it different because she loves Hawke? Is it different because she wants to be worthy of her?

"Bugger what others think."

"All I'm saying is… I want to go out with you. On the town and have good food. And we can just be… Isabela and Viktoria. The Champion belongs to Kirkwall. And… and I'm not saying you belong to me—"

"The water will get cold if we keep talking," Hawke dips her hand in the water again. She brushes a kiss to Isabela's forehead and then to her cheek. "We'll dress up like proper people and make a day of it. I'll find something that isn't bloodstained. We'll have a hard time finding something suitable for you. You're distracting enough."

Isabela frowns gently. "Well what does that mean?" She pushes the robe away from Hawke and slips into the water. Hawke joins her. "What am I? Just a walking sex bomb to you?"

Hawke smiles. "It means I'll be fighting the men and women away from you."

"Let's do an outing that doesn't involve bloodshed." Just once!

"Bloodshed seems to follow us where we go. It'll be quite nice, actually. If you take the attention off me, that is. I'd love to disappear into obscurity. Or disappear altogether. 'Where has the Champion of Kirkwall gone?' they'll say." She smiles in a wistful way that makes Isabela's heart jump with worry. "I wanted to die when you left. I thought about it. I did just about everything I could. I took a round about approach. I drank, I whored, I starved, I wandered where I shouldn't have, when I shouldn't have."

Isabela bites her tongue, unused to the sweeping panic that consumes her. If not for the hot water she's sure she'd stiffen and drown. "Well, I'm glad you didn't do anything stupid." Somehow she gets those words out. They aren't as dry as she means them to be. All she wants to say is how sorry she is, how the thought is so agonizingly crippling that she's stunned Hawke can say it so carelessly.

"Me too."

"What stopped you?"

"Merrill." Hawke doesn't look at her when she says it. The name is like a knife in Isabela's heart. Life is some cruel joke. "And you." Now Hawke looks at her and the pain that was wedged into her heart fades. "I thought… There was some part of me that was convinced you would return. Some small part. And the thought of you returning while I wasn't here, when I couldn't see you or hold you again…it was unbearable." Isabela moves, wrapping her slick arms around her. She holds her tightly, fighting the slippery nature of water and Hawke. "You're going to leave again," Hawke says hoarsely.

"No. I'm not." Isabela wonders if she really feels warmth on her shoulder where Hawke is pressed or if it's only an expectation given how she trembles. "You don't have to believe me. But I'll prove it to you as long as you need me to." She curls a hand around her hair. Hawke's breathing gradually steadies. "Now let's go eat. I get emotional when I'm hungry and I'm starving." She pulls away but Hawke won't look at her. The little of Hawke's face she can see reveals more than Isabela has seen in the year since her return. "All right?"

Hawke clears her throat before nodding.


	25. Chapter 25

A/N: This is the end! Final chapter, everyone! Thanks for reading.

 

x

 

When the boom of the Chantry explosion goes off, Hawke's flung back. There's a ringing in her ears. Everyone moves their mouths but she can hear nothing. Chunks of the chantry building rain down, in flames.

Isabela is spryer on her feet than Hawke is. She wraps a firm hand around her upper arm and pulls her up. "...ou ...ka...?"

Her head pounds from the deafening explosion. Hawke nods. To the left of her is Orsino, pale with shock and fear. To her right is Knight-Commander Meredith, white with rage.

There is a glint of pride in Anders' eyes. Hawke suddenly understands what she helped him do, what she provided him, borne of some guilt to compensate him for helping Merrill.

Just like that the breath goes out of her.

 

x

"Hawke. Hawke. Look at me." Isabela taps her face. The city is in chaos. Everyone is on the run and her hands are red and hot. Merrill won't look at her. Varric is furious. Fenris is smug. He can hardly keep the smirk off his face.  _I was right_ , his expression says;  _I told you so_. But Hawke had never argued the point. Sebastian is vindicated. Hawke doesn't feel as sure as she ought to. Her mouth is dry and filled with dirt. "Viktoria."

Hawke looks at her. She can't speak. Kirkwall is going to the Void in a hand basket again. How does this keep happening? How does she let this keep happening? Is she so stupid? Is she so weak?

"This is the part where I find a way to get lost and stay that way. But Kirkwall's errand girl isn't bright enough to do that, is she?" Isabela smiles wryly.

"Is this really the time?" Fenris asks sourly.

Isabela shuts him up with a look. "This is what all these years have been building up to. And that there," she flicks her eyes to Hawke's bloody hands, "won't be the last you spill today. The city is in revolt. You're the only one who can stop it. I know how you feel about things. I know your self loathing and your anger and your fears," she takes Hawke's face in her hands, "and you drive me bloody mad. You know how I feel about it. But whatever decision you make, I'm by your side." She steps closer, breathes more quietly. "I won't leave it again."

Hawke closes her eyes. She takes a quick look at the group. Merrill has her back to her. Varric's fists are curled. A rift has been created between them. Was it always there or did it stem from her judgment of Anders? Will Bianca lodge a message from him into her heart?

"Don't look at them," Isabela whispers, "look at me. Whatever you decide, we have to do it fast."

Hawke brings a trembling hand to her mouth. She moves away from her and to Anders' body, bleeding out on the stone. She kneels next to him. She's sorry about it. Would it have been different if she'd supported him? If she'd understood what was at stake? He's pale as a ghost. His skin is cold to the touch. His lifeless eyes are sad. It's too late. She can't save him now.

For the first time in years she breathes a prayer to the Maker, for his departed soul. It's only after she's finished that she notices the irony.

She stands and looks back at them. "I cannot allow this massacre to continue." She turns on her heel and goes.

She hears Varric remark 'well, that was a lousy speech.'

 

x

It's been years since she killed templars.

The city is on fire again. This time Isabela is at her side. Bodies litter the craggy alleyways of Lowtown, ripped open by templars, mages, demons. Shades and demons have torn through the Veil and are killing everything in sight.

A cold sweat springs to her brow. The streets are running red. The demons will have a field day. There is shouting everywhere, swords clanging and the sound of skin and arms being rended apart.

"Where are we going, Hawke?" Aveline asks. Hawke dares a look back at her. Aveline's face is wet with blood. She does not like this and yet she follows her.

"To the Gallows."

"Tell me you do not intend to stop the Order's right to annul the Circle," Fenris says sourly. "After what that apostate did-"

Hawke bites her tongue and keeps walking.

"You've always secretly sided with the mages," he continues.

"Must you start now?" Merrill asks. "This is not the time."

"Hawke hasn't decided anything yet," Aveline hurries to catch up with her. "Right now our priority is avoiding as much bloodshed as possible. Damn it all, Hawke, this is your mess. This is what happens when you meddle." She continues to mutter under her breath. "And I'm the Guard Captain. I should have reined you in."

"You still have time to join the Templars," she says offhandedly, only then realizing the decision has been made.

x

Hawke stumbles back, tripping over a collection of crates. The sword is massive. Like Carver's sword. He isn't as strong but he's faster. All these years meant nothing. She isn't allowed a decision made for the greater good, she isn't allowed thought because of who she is, because of old hatreds, the same hatreds that bound her, that made her despise herself, that caused her sleepless nights.

_But a demon almost took you._

She squelches a cry as he swings viciously, the sword screeching along a wall, sparks flying through the air. He's attacking her and somehow she can't bring herself to believe it.

They cared about each other once, they might have been more if not for the blood that runs through her veins. Now they're fighting. She hears the voices of the others crying for an end to this. She sees a flash of amber eyes, stepping in to help.

Hawke lifts an arm. "Stay out of it!" The next swing of the sword cuts close. Strands of black hair flutter down. She scrambles backward, extends the staff forward like an extension of himself. Fenris flies back, slams into the wall. "Don't do this, Fenris. Please. Trust me."

"I've followed you for years, acted against my conscience," he snarls. "I will not allow an apostate to attack the very Order that has kept the city safe from your kind!"

The words shouldn't sting. She goes cold. Her heart pounds. They trade blows. She has to be quick. If he connects once she's done for. He'll cut her in two. The fighting has been constant. This is not a headache she needed and the fight is draining her. She ducks a swipe and he shifts the sword, slamming the hilt into her forehead. The pain blooms, spreading until she goes numb and can only see a fuzzy red.

He leaps and is on her. Her fingers grip his face, the tips going frosty, his skin turning pale and blue. He growls, bringing the blade to her neck. She tries to push back but she doesn't have the strength. Wrong. She did it all wrong. She tried to reason when she should have fought. She's fought when she should have reasoned.

He grunts and then stiffens, swearing in his elven tongue. He collapses on top of her. Hawke gasps and pushes him off her.

Isabela stoops at her side, yanks a dagger from his back. She doesn't look at Hawke. "Sorry. I guess I couldn't stay out of it, after all." She touches his face. "Damn it."

x

Merrill hides in the shadows. Hawke follows the bloody footprints to get to her. For some moments they just breathe. Merrill's arms are locked tightly around her small frame. She's cold or defensive or scared. Her head is turned sharply away. She won't look at her. Hawke waits for a long time. Now and then she looks back to those who have stood beside her, to verify that they live still, breathe still.

They stand in the bloodied courtyard, splattered with blood and goop.

Orsino was a blood mage. Orsino was  _O._ He's dead now. Somehow, Hawke wishes he weren't. She wants to ask him why. She wants to kill him while he's aware enough to understand, to suffer. The Templars wanted to annul the Circle but he killed so many mages to feed that beast he turned into, to stop the abomination that was annulling the Circle.

"You're regretting doing it," Merrill says shakily. "You're regretting turning against the Templars." Hawke tries to moderate her breathing. "Please don't deny it. I know you. I can read your face better than anything. Better than anyone." Hawke bows her head before closing her eyes, lifting her head up to breathe. All she smells is blood. She can taste it, mingled with sweat in her mouth. "I'm so tired of Kirkwall. I'm tired of so much hatred and being afraid for who I am. It's so hard to do it year after year on your own." Hawke exhales. "If I make it out alive past all of this, I'm leaving."

"Where will you go?"

But Merrill doesn't answer.

 

x

Knight-Commander Meredith turns against her. Hawke wonders if she planned it all along or if it was Hawke's initial betrayal that did her in. Knight-Captain Cullen stands with Hawke which prompts Knight-Commander Meredith to lose it. Varric gets that gleam in his eye, the same one he gets when he knows he's in for one hell of a story.

Hawke fights because it's what she knows to do. She takes a stand that she was forced into and wonders if it's much of a stand at all. Meredith is conflicted, half-mad, talking to herself in the midst of battle. In the end when she's reduced to a smoldering husk, Hawke feels nothing but confusion. There is no clarity. There is no one right thing.

Orsino  _was_ a blood mage. Meredith was right all along. And in that final battle with Meredith, when things got desperate, when Merrill stabbed a knife into the palm of her hand, Hawke wondered what  _she_ could do, if only she knew how.

 

x

"You're bruised everywhere."

The sun spills indifferently into the bedroom as if the largest massacre in the recent history of Kirkwall hadn't just occurred. She and Isabela dragged themselves to the Hanged Man after the battle, before collapsing, fully dressed onto the bed. They slept for Hawke isn't sure how long. Now Isabela is up, turning Hawke's face this way, that way, searching for bruises.

"And you've got more dirt on you than the Deep Roads," she tsks, as if disgusted by the matter, but smiling in the process. Hawke focuses on Isabela. Every part of her body hurts, but the rest of her, her spirit, is fatigued and numb. "I woke up hours ago." Hawke sits up with a grimace before reclining against the headboard of the bed. She sighs tiredly. "I've been lonely."

"You? Lonely?" She ducks her face. Isabela strokes her hair, kisses her. Hawke expects her to taste of salt and blood but she doesn't. She's fresh, clean, her mouth like a balm. Hawke closes her eyes and breathes. Isabela's fingers remain on the back of her neck. "I'm sorry about Fenris," she says. Is it better for him that he didn't die at the hands of an apostate? Did he think it a betrayal? "And Anders." Their deaths, more than anything, seem most shocking of all.

"We were just getting rid of our competition," Isabela leans in close again but doesn't meet her eyes. Hawke brings a hand to Isabela's chest, feels for the thump of her heartbeat. Hawke slows her breathing so it matches Isabela's. It's calming. Isabela takes her hand, kisses it. "You should take a bath."

"You didn't leave me."

"Seriously, go. You smell."

 

x

Gamlen's door is missing pieces of it, a significant portion blackened by fire and smoke. Hawke is relieved to find him inside, relatively in one piece. Isabela squeezes her shoulder. "Of all the fools to leave alive," she grumbles but Hawke is sure she doesn't mean it.

He stands to see her. He's getting old, his stubble more white than not with the passage of time. His arm's in a sling. He sees her notice it. "It's nothing," he mutters at her.

Hawke approaches, takes a good, strong hold of his shoulder, searches him. An arrow's gone through his arm. "Has anyone taken a look at this?"

"Pah, you think I have the coin to get to a doctor? Or potions?" He glares at Isabela, who runs her fingers over every surface she sees, wipes indifferently at the dust that comes away on her fingers. "Can't remember the last time you came down to see me, girl. Not that I blame you," his eyes shine on Isabela, "if I had her to play with I wouldn't come out of the bedroom."

"The bedroom?" Isabela pipes up. "I'm just glad your niece has an imagination."

Gamlen arches his eyebrows but Hawke's fingers squeeze on his wound. He yelps and goes pale and then sweaty. "Damn, girl! What in the blazes-"

"You'll cease your comments about Isabela, Uncle, to her, to me," her fingers move over the wound, healing it. The sensation of an arrow burrowing into her arm begins, spreading until it's a dull ache. Gamlen flexes his arm, stretches it. Isabela shakes her head. "Or I'll return and break your arm myself."

Isabela scoffs. "No, she won't."

"Don't test me," Hawke thinks she directs the remarks at both of them. Isabela smiles.

"I heard about Knight-Commander Meredith," Gamlen says, using his arm to open a bottle of cheap wine and pour into three wooden, cracked cups. He nods at the two women. Isabela takes one and then the other when Hawke doesn't move to it. "Not just me, everyone's flapping their gums about it. You don't just kill Knight-Commanders, Viktoria. Not even tyrants." He grimaces and takes a seat. "They'll come after you."

"Who will?" Isabela asks.

"Everyone."

Hawke thought as much.

"Let them," Isabela looks at the cup of wine. "You know, this isn't half bad."

x

The elves ignore her. They recognize her as the Champion of Kirkwall. They became accustomed to her presence. With the death of Knight-Commander Meredith, the look in their eyes have shifted. Hawke doesn't know how to read it but she has a suspicion and it makes her ill at ease.

The lock on the door to Merrill's home has always been flimsy. After she knocks, after she calls out and gets no response, Hawke turns the handle. The door comes open with a slight squeak. A small mouse scurries past her feet. "Merrill?"

She wants to talk to Merrill. She wants to talk to her about what happened in the Gallows, about her plans, about all the conflicting things she feels. The home is dark, the poor shafts of weak sunlight streaming in not sufficient to light the place. It looks more desolate than usual. Hawke looks at the scattered candles strewn around the home and they flicker to life.

Where are the books? She walks briskly through the home. It isn't large. It doesn't take long to explore it. She's not there. Hawke searches the home again, knowing, in the back of her mind, that there's no way she could have missed her. Her footsteps echo too loudly.

Her chest is tight. On the third run through she discovers a scrap of paper, that must have slipped from where ever it was placed onto the floor, half beneath the bed. Hawke swallows and takes it with trembling fingers. When she finishes, she sits on the bed.

Some time later, when the light is even dimmer, Isabela enters. "She's gone, isn't she?" Hawke looks at her but can only manage a faint nod. Isabela goes to her, wrapping her arms around her neck. Hawke rests her head against her stomach and frowns.

x

"The city is becoming dangerous," Aveline says.

She and Isabela are at the Hendyrs' for dinner. Donnic looks unhappy at both of their guests. With Fenris gone he's deprived of one of his closer friends. Isabela shifts uncomfortably but Hawke is unsure if it's related to her role with Fenris, or being invited to a couple's family dinner.

"The city's always been dangerous," Isabela takes a swig of wine and refills it. "You just didn't see it the way others did. At least we've got Ser Manhands on it. It'll all be left in very capable hands."

"Left?" Donnic asks.

Aveline looks at Hawke. She cuts into a piece of beef roast but doesn't take a bite. "Other cities have heard of what you did here," she takes a bite of the roast, chews thoughtfully and swallows. She has a delicate sip of wine, and curls her fingers around her fork. "Mages are rebelling everywhere. Templars are revolting."

Hawke sets down her fork. What did she  _'do here'_? "What does that have to do with me, Aveline?"

"It has bloody everything to do with you, Hawke!" Aveline slams her fork down. The silverware rattles. Isabela steadies the wine. Donnic clears his throat. "You know how things are. Maybe it's unfair but your actions have consequences. Everything you do, Hawke, every action you take affects something else, someone else, fates for the better, for the worse." Hawke clenches her jaw. "I don't know what this all means. You've heard that some of the templars have released some of the remaining mages. And there are other templars who've fought  _those_ templars to prevent it from happening."

"So it would have been better, you think, to side with the Templars? To let them wipe out all their charges for what? The actions of one man? That's not right, Aveline and you know it."

Aveline grits her teeth. "I'm not sure. I'm not sure what the right answer is but I'm not you. I don't move the world with my every act."

Hawke stands and throws her napkin on the plate. "I'm not very hungry."

x

She's becoming accustomed to Isabela's weight. Hawke takes it as a testament of the time they've started to spend together. Isabela's lips trail a path down her back, the stud, a shiver inducing cold followed by the hot of her tongue. Isabela's arm is secure around her waist, the other sliding along the inside of her thigh, slipping higher.

"Forget what she said," Isabela murmurs in her ear, nipping at it in the process. "It doesn't matter."

"But it doe-"

Isabela catches her lips. What's tentative becomes more, searing and languid, deep as if to reach into her and take it all away. But Isabela probably doesn't think romantic things like that. Does it matter if the effect is the same? The worries aren't gone but they lack their usual oppressive quality. Isabela has all manners of tricks in her collection of charms.

This night she keeps it simple. She presses her to the bed and uses her hands and lips to lull her into complacency. She remains close and doesn't take her eyes off her. 'I want to look at you' she says. Hawke is the one who fidgets. Isabela must notice but doesn't call her out on it. Hawke thinks that she must have some magic in her veins; she cast a spell on her long ago.

She doesn't tell her so. Maybe later, when she can bear her laughter. "I love you," Isabela tells her. She whispers it again, breathes it with her every kiss and touch. Hawke feels something. Fear. Apprehension. Something strong and consuming. The words remain lodged in her throat but Isabela continues to give. What happened to her bartering system, Hawke wonders. She used to laugh at the idea of giving something for nothing.

x

"So, the word on the street is that you're leaving," Varric says.

Hawke wipes a smudge of grease from her pint glass. "The word on the street?" she asks. "That's Varric talk for 'I-started-a-rumor'." She smiles at him, leaning forward. "Have you decided to abandon Bianca at long last and give me a try? You've never had a human like me, Varric."

He laughs. "That may be, but I'm not starting with you." He wipes at his jacket. "Hawke, you don't understand. I have a story to tell! I'd hate to be thought of as biased! If I were sleeping with the Champion of Kirkwall, some might think your legend has been exaggerated. Well, shit, Hawke. I couldn't bear that."

"Mh, so now you're pinning your rejection on some creative philosophy?" She shakes her head. "I've struck out again. You know, I'm going to start taking it personally." She brushes a lock of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. A long silence passes. She fills his pint glass with the pitcher of beer. She speaks quietly. "Are you still angry? I know you were close."

Varric shrugs. "You tell me, Hawke. I've gotta say, you've looked different since it happened. Guilty. Color me surprised, given your history!" Hawke takes a slow drink of her beer. It's shitty beer but cold and refreshing. She doesn't want to think about Anders. She's tired of living in the grey. "If you're worried about having made him a martyr... well, that may be. But the Champion of Kirkwall- that title has moved far past our city walls. You've given hope to mages all over Thedas. They're chanting your name!"

"I don't want them to," she snaps. "Maker. I didn't want any of this. I didn't have an agenda." Varric shrugs, 'them's the breaks', it says. "I don't want this title anymore. What does it mean when it was given to me by the woman I later killed?"

"It doesn't matter what it was supposed to mean or what you want it to mean. What matters is how they see it, what it means to them."

"Your little stories haven't helped my cause."

Varric grins. "What can I say? Some legends just spread like fire, beyond either of our control."

Hawke frowns. "Have you heard any word?" He cocks his eyebrow. "From..." she looks around, and thinks it silly.

He shakes his head. "Sorry, kid. I can't find her."

x

The sea makes her sick. Maybe it's natural given the time spent in the hold on her way to Kirkwall. She remembers how her mother, Carver and Aveline grieved for what they had lost. She remembers sitting in the hold, stripped of everything. Bethany, gone. Her best friend, her little sister, just taken. After her father, she had not thought she could grieve more. When she lost Bethany, she thought it must be the last. How is one person capable of bearing such sorrow? She gave Kirkwall what she could and it repaid her by taking everything she loved.

She watches the City of Chains get smaller. They're still not far away enough. Why did she struggle so much for it? Why sacrifice so much? She hates Kirkwall. She never wants to see it again.

Isabela wanders the ship, hands on her waist. "This would be a far better experience if you'd have let me keep my ship," Isabela complains. She still calls it 'my ship' despite never having claim to it. "Would you be terribly angry if I commandeered this one once we docked? We could kill everyone and take it now," she considers, "but that's in poor taste." She joins her by the railing, looking at the water, taking a deep breath of air. "Maker. There's nothing like the sea. Your worries just slip away."

Do they? Hawke bites her lip. "Where will we go?"

"Why go to any one place? You don't owe anything to anyone anymore." She laces their hands. It isn't the first time Isabela has said the words, but it's the first time Hawke has believed them. "I want to show you Rivain. And Antiva. Orlais is absurd, but I think you'd do well there, with that pretty face of yours," she lifts on her heels to kiss her. "Are you going to pout forever, sweet thing? Don't make me feel as if I've kidnapped you." She looks at her. "I... haven't kidnapped you, have I?"

"Maybe."

"I'm not apologizing. You should have put up a better fight."

Hawke smiles. "I feel like all the fight has gone out of me." She looks at the sapphire sea, the blue, cloudless sky with swooping seagulls. She inhales deeply. The air fills her lungs. It could be something she gets used to after all.

"What does that mean?"

"It means I love you." Funny, how they spill free now. Maybe she needed distance from Kirkwall. Maybe she needed space from the city that took everything she cared for.

Isabela releases her hand. She folds her arms on the railing and looks out at the water. "Are you sure?"

"I've never been less sure in my entire life. Who am I? A champion? A monster? Who was Anders? What was the point of any of it?" What is that magic flowing through her veins? A gift? A curse? She used to be so sure. She shakes her head. "You're the only thing I am sure of. I love you," she says it again, feels more confident this time. "I know that. And you did, too."

"I didn't." She sighs, as if worn by Hawke's tiresome behavior. "I didn't know that at all."

"Then why stay by my side?"

"Do you want the real answer? Or do you want me to make something up?"

"I want the truth. We've both lied long enough, haven't we?"

Isabela smirks. "It takes a liar to know a liar." She shrugs. "I stayed because..." There's a long pause. "Because it didn't matter if you loved me. I stayed because...I hoped maybe one day you would. And that was enough." She laughs softly. "It was a gamble. But I like gambles. I like risks and danger, adventure. You were all of those things. So naturally..."

Hawke wraps an arm around her waist and draws her near.

 


End file.
